


Ivan Kosin

by Kabi



Series: November [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bride Capture, CarrierVerse, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Gender Roles, M/M, Maledom, Mpreg, Romance, communal living
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabi/pseuds/Kabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan is a ruthless government interrogator with a dark past who is transformed into a Carrier, and must learn to navigate his new world to find redemption and love. He finds both in the hands of Malcolm Lawdon - a man with dark secrets of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 2 [Monday]

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

In his room in the executive tower of the Brookham Carrier Education Centre, Ivan Kosin was sitting in his bedroom, making a list of what he needed to do.

The day was short. He didn't have much time. He needed a car; he couldn't take his own - it had transmitters all over it. He needed a few maps, and enough painkillers to last him, and someplace safe to go. He could go to his father's cabin, but if things went wrong...it wasn't a good place to be. He needed a safehouse. Ivan knew they existed - he'd once led a campaign to stamp them out. Sixteen men who had been sheltering carriers had been locked up.

Ivan ran his hands over his hair. He wondered if he should shave it, change his appearance. He decided against that - it would only look suspicious. Everything had to look normal.

Maybe he should go to his father's cabin. No, better not to be someplace he could be found. Fuck Henrik Angstrom for this. Ivan suddenly wondered what he was even doing - was this a temporary? Was it forever? Henrik Angstrom would pay. He had planned for temporary, but how would that even work? All it would take would be one leak, one accusation...and Henrik Angstrom knew. He knew, the bastard, because he had done this. Rage, and then suddenly, the anguish of memory mingled with jealousy swept over Ivan. In university, they had had a tryst, he and Henrik, if it could have been called that. It had been simple, harmless, a few nights here and there in Ivan's small dorm room, with his books and his painting of Lake Baikal hanging over them. Henrik would come in, late in the evenings, after outings with his friends, and he would arrive at Ivan's with his shirt half-done in that peculiar way he'd had back then, and knock on the doorframe and just looked at him. Then he'd lock the door behind himself. They were always in Ivan's room, never Henrik's. Henrik had been gentle with him, his touch infinitely kind, but they had never spoken of it to anyone else - not even close friends. It had been their secret, and it had destroyed Ivan for three years to keep it.

But that was the way it had been then...not like now. Things had had to be kept secret then. For a second shorter than he could even mark it, Ivan felt a sort of glee - with the change, maybe this was his opportunity...but no, he had been only yesterday at Henrik's wedding. He had, only yesterday, met his new carrier bride. Then hatred welled up again - Henrik Angstrom had done this to him. And the pain of rejection followed because it made clear what he had always known - that Henrik didn't want him, never had. If he'd loved him, he would have done this to him a long time ago, or at least never at all. But not now. Not when there was nothing left for him; no chance of rekindling. Emotion tickled his gut, but just as quickly, Ivan deadened it.  
He needed a jeep.


	2. May 3

Ivan Kosin stood naked in front of the mirror in his bathroom, inspecting his own reflection. Nothing. No changes obvious yet. He examined his face. Beard still in. But he hurt - his balls were beginning to ache, and he'd been nauseated all night, unable to sleep. He hoped he didn't look too tired now - he had to be at his best, appear as if all were normal. He couldn't take any chances.

~:~

He hadn't had anything scheduled for today - no inquiries, no meetings. Kosin spent the morning pacing, and making lists. He had two: one listed everything he would need to successfully disappear, and the other listed everything he would need in case he couldn't. The first was almost complete; nothing had yet been written on the second.

He needed a jeep. A jeep and a destination and an identity card and some gloves and - fuck. All at once, a wave of miserable self-awareness came over him and his knees nearly buckled. What if he couldn't make it? He had to. What if he were caught? He wouldn't b. What if everything went wrong? It would be fine. What if he made it and nothing went wrong, but then he just couldn't live the lie? He would have to.

Kosin picked up a pencil from his desk as he paced past and bit into it, the dull crunch of the wood temporarily soothing his head. No time for headaches, he reminded himself. He had things to do.

So far, he'd managed to reschedule and clear Thursday and Friday - any sooner would look suspicious - and had packed the only things he intended to take into a single backpack, which was waiting for him by his bedroom door. He paced back by the desk and his eyes fell on the little wooden globe that perched to the left, where it was always struck by the sun. His father had given him that globe, one of exactly five gifts he'd ever received from the man in his lifetime. He'd hated the thing when he'd gotten it - it was small, it was cheap, it was ostentatious with is gold and mother of pearl...staring at it now, the cold reality of his situation began to sink in.   
Ivan Kosin was dead.   
Everything he knew would have to be left behind.

He decided on a cliff - it was the most dangerous, but also the best way, and he knew just the place. There was a mountain road on the way to his father's cabin - a blind spot gave it a deadly curve around one precipice, and below was all dry brush. If he gave the fire a headstart, the car should burn quickly. Then he would be free to begin again - free to start life over again, in some big city where no one would be any the wiser.

This, of course, was all contingent upon him getting a jeep. He'd waffled about taking his own vehicle, but decided against it. The trackers were always on, and although they went largely unmonitored, if someone did happen to check in, the whole plan could fall apart.   
Better to take a jeep.


	3. May 5

At eleven in the morning on Friday, May 5th, Ivan Kosin got out of the shower, prepared to die.

He dressed quickly, checked on things around his apartment, wrote out a short suicide note (to be found when they came to go through his things), slung his backpack over his shoulder and stuck his wallet in his back pocket, reminding himself for the hundredth time to leave it in the jeep. As if he could forget. Fuck, his balls hurt. They were so much smaller now than they had been before, little hard knots that ached when touched even lightly. He'd been running a slight fever for the past few hours, but he'd checked the literature and everything assured him it was common to carriers going through the change - nothing at all to worry about unless it persisted.

Kosin zipped his pants, his fingers brushing over the little plastic patch that rested squarely on his lower abdomen. Kosin hoped that he'd gotten enough patches to last him. He'd been sure to acquire some of the higher dosages, as his pain seemed to be increasing in severity now. It worried him a little, because it seemed to come sooner than it should, but everyone was different, he supposed. He'd gotten the patches the day before - a carrier in the pharmacy who was under investigation for behavioral problems had been all too happy to supply them in exchange for the mysterious loss of his records.

Kosin counted them out - most of them lasted 12 hours each, and he'd taken 12 packs. Eleven if he changed one now. He debated doing so, then decided he'd better. He picked one out and put the box back into the zippered pocket of his backpack. He would need all his strength for the task at hand, and the last time he'd been dosed was almost eight hours past, and it had been a weaker patch. By the time he'd left his office, its effect had already been waning. He lifted his shirt, pushed down the hem of his jeans and peeled off the old patch, crumpling it and shoving it down into his pocket. No sense leaving evidence of any suspicious goings-on. He rubbed the tender spot on his lower belly, stripped of hair by the adhesion of the patch, before placing the new patch on it.

The effect of the pain patch came in so quickly that Kosin got a little light-headed for a minute, and wondered whether he should have waited to dose himself. But there was no helping it now - if he didn't leave soon, his window of opportunity to get the jeep would be gone.

~:~

In the car yard, the gravel crunched under his feet. The young soldier walking beside him - Buck? Bick? Biff? - chattered on, making the entire walk unbearably noisy. Poor kid, Ivan suddenly thought, he still thinks I can help him. The boy wanted to be an Investigator, he'd told Kosin, and was desperate to ingratiate himself to one of the best in the business. When Kosin had mentioned that he'd be making a trip up to the mountains this weekend, to see his father and wouldn't mind borrowing a vehicle, the boy had practically leapt at the chance to offer him one.

Now, walking beside him, the boy's eager voice rattling off his own qualifications, Kosin felt a little guilty. The kid was just so damned...zealous. He wished he could help him. They arrived at the jeep, tucked off behind a shed - it had been reserved for visiting officials, the kid told him. But we haven't got anyone coming in this weekend. So as long as you're careful, I don't see why not. Kosin smiled an icy smile and thanked him again, assuring the kid he'd be in touch as soon as he returned. The boy grinned, saluted, and turned to go. Just remember, Kosin had said, if anyone asks - I was never here. The boy nodded gravely and disappeared. Kosin was left alone. It was almost noon.

~:~

It was almost nine o'clock, and the sun had long since begun to decline into the low light of the early evening. Kosin drove on. He was close now, barely ten miles from the spot he was looking for, and nervousness was beginning to spike up in his consciousness. Fear of failure and fear of success warred equally in his mind.   
He kept driving.

At some length, he began to look for the signs that marked the turn off onto the small mountain road. There was the rock that stood like a sentinel...two more miles then. Time passed, several minutes, and Kosin began to worry. He turned around, went back and retraced three miles. Nothing. In the encroaching darkness, it was difficult to see where the road ended and the forest began. Had he missed the turn off? Had he gone too far? Come the wrong way? Worry began to seize him. He couldn't keep driving like this - not with night coming on. He didn't know these roads as well as he once had, and once false move could send him to a very real death. He hesitated, then flicked on the lights of the jeep. Already, pain was beginning to seep through the edges of his awareness. It hovered just off now, on the outer edges of his plane of consciousness, preparing itself to pounce. He shifted in his seat, seeking some relief. Perhaps he should pull off for the night - sleep in the jeep by the side of the road. No. Not a good idea.  
He kept driving.

Twenty minutes later, with his headlights showing the way, Kosin saw the sign that he'd been missing. It was rusted, bent, and lying in a tangle of thicket. High Point, it said: .3 miles. The road it had once marked was gone. Kosin's stomach dropped immediately, and he had to lunge out of the door to keep from throwing up in the Jeep. He retched for a while, managed to remember to turn off the lights, then knelt there on the ground for fifteen long minutes, just trying to breathe and regain his footing on the rapidly slipping world.  
No sense in crying, he told himself. There has to be another way.

When he was a child, Kosin had wandered these backroads every summer, when his father brought him up here for the season. It had been his escape, his refuge when his father's anger or disgust or just general short-temperedness had driven him out of the house. He had also learned to come here when there were guests at home - Kosin had learned quickly that the presence of other men never brought out the best in his father. He'd danced a careful ballet of avoidance and deference during those times. One memory surged up, unbidden, into his mind, and Kosin tasted bile again as he knelt over in the brush.   
Don't let it in, he heard the trees tell him. He can't get you here.

He would take the back pass up to High Point.

~:~

It was after ten by the time Kosin got close to the proper point again. He'd had to drive carefully up this way - the road was much traveled by both bandits and MP rangers, and he had no desire to tangle with either. He was getting low on gas now, and worried over this - it limited his options greatly. If he made even one false move, he would have to drive back to town, refuel and start again in the morning. Kosin wasn't so sure that going anywhere but to the Point was a good idea.   
So he drove.  
His left knee ached by now, from being held in one position for so long, and his lower back was starting to pinch a little, but he didn't have time to stop for a stretch. He had to keep going. The other turn-off couldn't be more than 7 miles from here, and Kosin was sure it would be open. It had been used frequently by rangers and firewatchers, and had even been gated at one point. Kosin hoped it was't now.

He drove on through the endless darkness, rolling his windows down so that the cool May air chilled his skin but also brought in the lush green scent of the forest, calming him. The stars looked over him. Kosin drove on.

Twenty minutes later, he spotted the turn-off. It was close, just there up the hilly straight road, so near to where he was. Just another hour, he assured himself, and this would all be over. He could make a nest in the forest for the night, and in the morning, keep moving. He would have to disguise it well - better than he had as a child. The woods were not as friendly now as they once had been. But Kosin didn't mind - he was ready for this. Ready to be reborn, to become new again. Ready for Ivan Kosin to die.

Halfway up the hill to the turnoff, Kosin's jeep stalled.

~:~

"Well, you're lucky we happened to be passing by out here, son. Not another soul for miles. You could've been stuck out here all night."  
Kosin smiled grimly and leaned against the side of his jeep. The older of the pair of MPs was speaking to him; his partner had gone back to the car, ostensibly to check for supplies and call for backup. Kosin knew what he'd really be doing - running the tags on the jeep, checking Kosin's ID against known criminal activity, calling in to the local sheriff to ensure there was nobody wanted roaming through their town. The older man tapped the side of the jeep idly with his baton.  
"What were you doing up this way, after all? Pretty late at night for a drive."  
Kosin worked hard to keep himself from glaring. He tried to sound casual.  
"Just on my way to my father's house - he lives over by Abrams Creek. Got a little nostalgic on the way, and I thought I'd go for a drive up to Stern, see the view."  
The officer nodded, but Kosin could tell that he was busy scrutinizing Ivan Kosin's face.  
"Who's your daddy?"  
"Nicholas Kosin."  
Sheriff nodded.  
"Heard of 'im."  
Kosin kept himself from congratulating the man. A wave of dizziness overcame him. How long had it been since his last pain patch? Eight hours. This shouldn't be happening - he'd put on a 12 hour one, hadn't he? The edges of the forest were starting to look a little fuzzy. Kosin suddenly remembered that he hadn't eaten since the morning. Well, he told himself, just don't pass out. Don't pass out, and everything will be fine.

~:~

Kosin woke up propped halfway up in the arms of the younger MP. The man was looking down at him, worriedly, through a pair of eyes so dark they seemed black.  
"You back with us, buddy?"  
Kosin wanted to talk, but his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He groaned instead, and rolled sluggishly over. The MP struggled to keep his grip on him.  
"Whoa now. Careful. Don't want to hit your head again. Let's get you to drink a little water."  
The water helped, and presently, Kosin was able to speak again. He coughed, jostling his belly. More nausea came, chased by pain, but he managed to hold himself together.

"Sorry about that, officer. I haven't eaten since the morning - I can get a little hypoglycemic sometimes, and I must have overestimated myself." Kosin shook his head in a self-scolding manner. "I should get on to my father's house and eat something."  
 _Let me go_ , his eyes said. _Let me go let me go let me go let me go._  
"I don't think I can let you do that, son."   
The older MP was standing over them now, and there was a cognizance in his eyes that Kosin didn't at all like.   
"Why don't you get your backpack and go ahead and get in the back of the car. We'll take you down to the station, get you something to eat, and then in the morning, we'll bring you back to your vehicle and you can be on your way."

Kosin stared at the man for a minute, trying to formulate a proper response. He felt winded, lost - did this man know something? Had he found something? Had they gone through his stuff? That was illegal, wasn't it? He had a government ID. But if it was a medical emergency, perhaps they'd felt it was justified...what had they found? His patches? The accelerant? Couldn't be the accelerant. They weren't treating him like a suspect. More like a victim. Fear seized him. He shook his head.  
"Thanks, officer, but I think I'd better just head on home. I can - "  
"It wasn't a suggestion, Investigator."  
They knew who he was. They'd called him in. But how much did they know? Had Henrik reported him? Was the CEC looking for him? He felt sick again, but throwing up on the officer - who was still holding him firmly - would not help his case. He tried to sit up, pushing the other MP away.  
"OK. OK. Let me - I'll get my bag."  
The other officer picked it up from where it was resting by his leg and held it out to Kosin. Kosin swallowed, then took it.

In the car, the older MP got into the passenger seat and turned to the younger one.  
"You call in?"  
"Yep."  
"And what'd they say about the jeep?"  
The younger MP paused, glancing at Kosin in the rearview mirror with those black, unfathomable eyes.  
"They said they'd had no idea it was even missing."


	4. May 6

Kosin turned over in his cell. The floor was cold, and damp. His blanket was thin, but it was better than the filthy mattress that was his other choice. He wondered when the holding cells had gotten this bad. It wasn't _prison_ , after all. Innocent men sat in these rooms. He pulled his shirt closer around him. In the car last night, he'd put on another patch, but the efficacy was gone now - it had to be almost eight in the morning. The pain was unbearable, and for a moment, Kosin wondered if something was wrong. He hung his head between his knees and tried to breathe slowly. For a minute, he wished that he'd stayed at the CEC after all. At least then he wouldn't have to feel like this. Somewhere down the hall, keys jangled and the sound of footsteps grew close. The MPs were coming.

They'd questioned him last night, briefly, but they had still been playing the we're-all-friends-here game, and so they hadn't been too overt. They had made it clear, however, that whatever plans Kosin had for the weekend should be cancelled; he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. That had frightened him. Interrogation didn't frighten him; pain meant nothing. Discovery - now that was a different story.

The younger man, who Kosin now knew to be Chief Deputy Malcolm Lawdon, was standing outside of his cell.  
"Get up. Come with me."  
He made it sound so easy. Kosin tried to move, but had to stop as the pain overwhelmed him. Lawdon watched, waiting patiently for Kosin to get to his feet of his own accord.

They hadn't handcuffed him, and Kosin wondered momentarily at their stupidity. He knew these woods as well as anyone - if he could make a break, he wouldn't need a car to make his way home in these mountains. Or maybe they knew he wouldn't run. Couldn't, at this point. Maybe they knew more than they let on. Lawdon walked close to him, though - almost flush up behind him and Kosin wondered if that was to keep him from escaping or to keep him from falling again.

By the time they made it to the interrogation room, Kosin could barely stand. He grabbed onto Lawdon's shirt sleeve.  
"I just - I need to sit down for a minute."  
Lawdon looked down at him.  
"You can sit down inside. We're here."  
He opened a door to their right and dragged Kosin inside. Two deputies were leaning against the glass wall; Lawdon jerked his thumb at them.  
"Out."  
They went, and Lawdon guided Kosin over to the chair facing the glass wall. Kosin collapsed into it, curling in on himself. Lawdon walked around to the other side of the table, but didn't sit; instead, he leaned over it to watch Kosin.  
"I need - I need my - "  
"What do you need?"  
"My backpack." he gasped out.  
The chief frowned.  
"I can't give that to you. Do you need a doctor?"  
Kosin shook his head furiously.  
"No. No, I just - " his head was swimming. He couldn't think straight. "I just need my bag."  
Lawdon shook his head.  
"I'm going to get you a doctor." he began to leave, but Kosin grasped his arm, desperately, to stop him.  
"No! No! I just need - "  
"Oh, _fuck_."  
Lawdon wasn't listening to him anymore; he was staring at Kosin's groin. Kosin followed his eyes to where a dark stain was rapidly spreading between his legs.  
"No."  
"You're bleeding."  
"No, I'm not."  
It was a stupid answer, but Kosin didn't care - his thoughts were a muddle. All he could figure out was that Lawdon was figuring things out. The chief stared at him with those deep, black eyes.  
"You're a carrier."  
"No!" he had to take a good breath to even his vision out again. "I'm not!"  
Lawdon glanced up at him for a second.  
"OK. Ok. You need to see a doctor."  
"No, please."  
"The nearest one is thirty miles. What do you need until then?"  
Finally, the man was listening to sense.  
"My bag - my pain patches - they're in my bag. Please."  
Lawdon nodded gravely and turned to go. Then, having second thoughts, he turned back, cuffed Kosin to the chair, and left.  
Mercifully, Kosin was too focused on the pain to even think about what had just happened.

~

On the other side of the glass, the older MP, the sheriff, was waiting when Chief Malcolm Lawdon came charging in.  
"What do I do?"  
The sheriff turned, looking calmly over his young charge.  
"What do you want to do?" he drawled.  
Malcolm looked torn between guilt and panic.  
"I don't know."  
The sheriff shook his head.  
"I can't make the decision for you."  
Lawdon thought about it for almost five seconds.  
"I want him."  
The sheriff moved a wad of tobacco around in his mouth.  
"Well, alright."  
"What do I do?"  
"Take him his meds." the sheriff nodded towards the glass wall. "Boy's in agony."  
"And then?!"  
"Lock the door and call his daddy."

~

Kosin couldn't remember most of the morning, but when he came to a little after noon, he was lying on a bed and the pain was gone. He sat up and his wrist caught - he was handcuffed to the bedpost. He looked around - no one else in the room, no personal effects, no television. Nothing but a bed, lamp, nightstand and clock. This was probably a spare room, then, for overnighting at the station. Was he still at the station? He couldn't be sure, but he guessed so. He checked himself for injury. None, but someone had undressed him - he was wearing a pair of loose fitting sweatpants and a too-large uniform shirt. He lifted the hem of his shirt - a new pain patch. He pulled back the band of the sweatpants. New underwear, too. And padding, for where he was still bleeding. Fantastic. Kosin let his head drop back against the pillows. It was time to make a new plan.

He had about ten minutes to himself before the door opened. A young, nervous-looking deputy was in the doorway.  
"Oh. Good. You're awake." he conspicuously avoided looking at Kosin, choosing instead to stare at the floor, his shoes - anywhere but at the carrier handcuffed to the bed. "I'll uh, I'll just get you out of here." He approached the bed and unbound Kosin. "You're wanted outside."  
Kosin looked suspiciously at him.  
"I'm wanted?"  
The boy nodded.  
"Yeah. Um, your father's here."  
Unbelievable, Kosin thought to himself. This situation just kept getting worse. The death pit of emotion he felt at every thought of his father swirled around inside of him - rage, anger, fear, pity, hatred, and the overwhelming pain of rejection. Kosin cleared his throat, hoping to sound gruff.  
"What is he doing here?"  
The boy unlocked the handcuff from the bedpost and snapped it around Kosin's other wrist.  
"Chief Lawdon called him."  
Kosin's suspicion grew.  
"What for?"  
The boy glanced, embarrassed, up at Kosin's face, then down again.  
"I think he wants to marry you."

~

He had tried to steel himself for the inevitable shock, but nothing could really ever prepare him. Kosin hadn't seen his father in years, had managed to keep enough life and distance between them to give himself at least a sense of refuge, of safety in the knowledge that the old man was far, far away. That singular comfort existed no longer. _Please_ , Kosin begged, _I will do anything. I will say anything to anyone. Just please make this a mistake. Please don't tell me he's here. Please don't make me see my father._  
Then the deputy swung the office door open, and Nicolas Kosin looked up with only vague interest at his newly-changed carrier son.  
"Hello, Ivan." his father drawled, and even from the doorway where he stood, Ivan could smell the familiar burn of alcohol on his father. "It seems you've finally become of some use to me."

Kosin tried, he really did, but his legs were leaden suddenly, and too heavy to move. His father looked up at him again, and now that familiar madness was back in his eyes.  
"Ivan." he said. "Don't be difficult."  
Ivan walked numbly to the chair beside him and sat.  
The sheriff, sitting in the lone chair across from their two seats, tried to smile warmly at him.  
"Well, Ivan - " The sheriff pronounced his name eye-van, and for a brief moment, Ivan wanted to surge across the table and slap a correction across the man's face. He stared straight ahead instead. "It appears you have a choice. You can either be transported to the local CEC, or you can be released into your father's custody."  
"CEC, please." Ivan answered immediately.  
" _Ivan_." his father's voice had that dangerous fringe to it - that anger that Kosin knew well. He shut his mouth immediately. From the chair closest to the door, Chief Malcolm Lawdon observed this interaction with a thin-lipped gaze. Nicolas Kosin turned back to the sheriff.  
"Ivan would be more than happy to remain in my custody."  
The sheriff looked to Ivan for confirmation or protest, but all he got was a blank stare. He raised an eyebrow.  
"Well, if that is the case, then I expect the rest of this paperwork belongs to Chief Lawdon." he turned to the younger man. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm Lawdon made his way over from across the room and exchanged seats with the sheriff. Nicolas Kosin eyed him warily.  
"There's a contract." Malcolm began, succinctly.  
"I've read the contract." Nicolas snapped. "So these terms that you've laid out - "  
"What terms?" Ivan interrupted, then saw stars as the elder Kosin hit his son so hard that Ivan temporarily lost his balance in his chair. When he got back up, Malcolm Lawdon had that same thin-lipped frown on his face again. Ivan's father just glared him.  
"Don't interrupt, Ivan. It's rude."  
Kosin sat shakily down in his chair. Nicolas indicated Malcolm Lawdon.  
"This nice man here would like to take you off my hands." Nicolas Kosin said amiably. Then he leaned in to hiss at Ivan. "Don't ruin this one, too."  
Ivan just stared straight ahead. Nicolas Kosin went calmly back to his conversation.  
"As I said, the terms. They're firm?"   
Lawdon glanced at Kosin, then nodded. Nicolas raised an eyebrow.  
"They're almost too generous, Mr. Lawdon."  
Lawdon exchanged a look with the sheriff, then nodded.  
"That they are."  
"I'm wondering what the catch is."  
"There is none."  
"Then I'm wondering where you got the money."  
Lawdon's expression cooled even further.  
"I don't know that it's any of your concern."  
"Could be if it isn't your money."  
"It's mine. I assure you of that."  
Nicolas Kosin shrugged and raked his eyes down the page.  
"I'd like a deferral of custody clause added. You get sick of him, I'm not paying to take him back. That's your responsibility, to find a new place for him."  
Lawdon's ears grew pink, but he nodded.  
"Done."  
Nick Kosin raised a skeptical eyebrow and looked at Lawdon, then at Ivan, then back at Lawdon.  
"How attached you are for a new acquaintance. Tell me the truth: did my son let you fuck him already?"  
Lawdon recoiled and Ivan just closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else.  
"Mr. Kosin, I assure you that - "  
"Be honest. It won't change whether I sign the papers or not. But I know my son. What did he promise you if you did this?"  
Lawdon shook his head.  
"Nothing. He - "  
Kosin's father interrupted, already marking his signature on the first page.  
"Well, it's too late now. He's yours." Nicolas Kosin scanned down the contract again, finger lingering by the bride-price number. "Look at this, Ivan," he said, his tone deceptively jovial, "You're appreciating in value."  
Ivan had thought he couldn't be any more sick than he was, but that did it. He snapped his gaze around to look at his father.  
"What?"  
Nicolas Kosin signed the second page and looked right back at him.  
"What?"  
"You said - I'm appreciating..."  
Kosin signed the third, then the fourth page.  
"The general, Ivan? I'm sure you remember him."  
Ivan's stomach lurched. Don't let it in, don't let it in.  
"You di - I was - "  
Nicolas signed the fifth page, then the last. Lawdon watched him do it.  
"You what?"  
Ivan couldn't even bring himself to say the words; an irrational loyalty to his father kept him from wanting to bring trouble on the half-mad old man. They were in a police station, after all. But the fear of speaking didn't stop him from thinking it. I was seven, he said in his head. I was seven years old.

Nicolas Kosin got to his feet.  
"Well, gentlemen? Shall we?"  
Lawdon, who was now clutching the papers tight in his hand, as if they might fly away at any moment, made a face of utter confusion.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"Your doctor - where is he? Let's get this done so I can get back to my work. I've got very important guests coming this evening."  
Kosin laughed inside his head. His father had no guests, important or otherwise, coming. He hadn't had a friend in twenty years.  
"Get what done?" Lawdon was beginning to regard his father with the kind of expression one might reserve for a man speaking entirely in gibberish.  
"The claiming! He's no good if you lose him, you know. And mark my words, if you give him half an inch, Ivan will run. He goes to ground like a rabbit at the first sign of trouble. You leave him alone for ten minutes, unclaimed, and he'll be gone faster than you can blink. I want this done before I leave."

Exactly what it was his father was demanding began to sink in for Kosin.  
"Dad, I won't - "  
Nicolas turned to him, that surge of insanity back, glinting in his pupils, and began to reach for his son. Malcolm Lawdon slammed his hands down on the table.  
"DO NOT!" he shouted, before regaining control over himself and continuing, "…touch my carrier."  
Nicolas paused in surprise, then laughed.  
"You haven't paid for him yet."  
"Contract's been signed. He's mine. You touch him and that's assault. You want to spend a few nights here, _Nick_?"  
The pointed way the chief called Kosin's father by a diminished version of his name made Ivan want to laugh out loud. He controlled himself and kept silent. Lawdon calmed down, relaxed back into the chair and exchanged a look with the sheriff.  
"As I was saying. We've got no doctor on staff here. Had to call in to Gatlinburg just to figure out what to do with him. They said he'll be fine; doctor won't get to us until tomorrow."  
Nicolas Kosin narrowed his eyes.  
"Then we'll do it the old-fashioned way. Round up a deputy and we'll have three witnesses."  
Lawdon's face went from shocked to deeply disturbed.  
"Mr. Kosin, I - "  
Suddenly, Kosin's father was in Malcolm Lawdon's face, teeth bared, eyes dim with anger.  
"This gets done, Officer. I'm not walking out of here with a contract that becomes meaningless in an hour when you lose my rat of a son! You do this, or he comes home with me."  
Kosin's stomach lurched at the thought of spending even one more second in his father's care. Malcolm Lawdon sneered.  
"Bullshit. The papers are signed, and you can't reclaim him."  
Nicolas' face grew pinched and angry.  
"Under the - "  
"Chief Lawdon." Ivan interrupted. Both men looked down at him. His father's eyes held a warning, but Nicolas Kosin didn't make a move towards Ivan. Kosin swallowed and tried to shore up some courage. "He's correct. It's a provision of the Lagerfeld Act; the revision of the Carrier Claiming & Custody Act."  
Kosin should know. He'd written that act. When it had passed, his father had sent him a note telling him what a stupid idea it was for him to be wasting his career as a paper-pushing bureaucrat.

Nicolas Kosin regarded his son with an expression somewhere between annoyance and malice.  
"Get up and go, then. Since you know so goddamn much, you should know that we're just wasting time now."  
Ivan stood, intentionally not looking at anyone else in the room. Lawdon shook his head.  
"No. We'll either wait for a doctor or - "  
"The Act only gives a window of 12 hours."  
Lawdon stared at Ivan, then looked to the sheriff. Then, finally, he looked at Nicolas Kosin.  
"He's not even finished changing yet - I could hurt him."  
Nicolas glared accusingly at the sheriff.  
"You told me he was more than halfway through."  
The sheriff shrugged.  
"He is."  
"Then it's nothing that won't heal. Go on, Ivan."  
Lawdon glanced at Ivan, who was still staring at nobody in the room.  
"No." he said, firmly. "I can't do it."  
Kosin's father moved forward as if to snatch up the contract which was lying currently on Malcolm's desk.  
"Then give him back to me."  
Ivan tried to remain firmly non-reactive, but the fear must have shown on his face, because Malcolm Lawdoon took one look at him and changed his mind.  
"No! I'll - " the man swallowed, and looked again at Ivan. "I'll do it."

~:~

They came to the back bedroom where Kosin had earlier been sleeping. Ivan went through first. Malcolm went just behind him. Inside, three deputies had already been lined up, and were waiting, their eyes trained on the clock on the wall. Nicolas Kosin stepped up to the doorway, but Malcolm's hand on his chest stopped him.  
"We have three."  
Mr. Kosin jutted his chin out.  
"Hmph."  
Lawdon just stared at the man for a long, angry minute.  
"You're his father." he hissed.  
"All the more reason." Nicolas Kosin sneered right back at him.

The door closed behind them. Kosin was standing by the bed, also staring at the clock. For a moment, Malcolm was struck by the absurdity of the entire situation.  
"I - come here."  
Ivan did, but still didn't look at him. Malcolm gestured to the deputies.  
"Around."  
All three turned to face the wall.  
"Earplugs."  
Each of them took a set of earplugs from their pockets and put them in, then put a set of silencing headphones over them. Ivan spared a look towards the men.  
"Act says nothing about the manner of witnessing." Lawdon pointed out. Kosin shrugged. Lawdon frowned at him. "Look, I don't want to hurt you."  
Kosin shrugged.  
"You won't."  
"You're not...fully developed." Kosin wondered how it was that Lawdon could be so sure of that, then realized that it was probably he who had cleaned him up. Humiliation burned his ears. He shrugged.  
"I'll be fine."  
Lawdon shook his head, and Kosin nodded to counter it and lowered his voice.  
"There is nothing you can do to me that will hurt worse than the things I've already had. Just do what you have to." he looked up at Malcolm, into the swirling depths of those black eyes. "But please don't leave me with him."  
Malcolm stared at him for a minute, and then nodded and pointed Kosin to the bed. In a quiet voice, he said,  
"Undress and get in the bed."  
Kosin did, kicking the borrowed clothes to the side, disgusted to see that already he was beginning to stain his underwear with blood.

Lawdon was quick about getting them started - he did nothing unnecessary, no touches meant to feel familiar. It was just the way Kosin liked it - fast, and silent. Lawdon didn't even seem to notice the three other men in the room. After a few seconds, it seemed to be time - Kosin lifted his legs to wrap around the man's waist and felt a pang suddenly for how long it had been since he'd been required to do this.  
Lawdon shook his head and moved Kosin's legs into a different position. Ivan shrugged and complied.  
"I'm not going to penetrate you."  
Kosin shrugged.  
"It's fine if you do. I'll heal."  
Malcolm frowned.  
"I don't want to hurt you like that. I - I don't want to hurt you at all."  
Kosin shook his head.  
"If this hurt me, I'd have been dead a long time ago."  
Malcolm let horror flicker over his face for just long enough to make Kosin exhale in annoyance.  
"Sorry. I didn't - I didn't mean to ruin the mood."  
Malcolm stared at him.  
"I can't do this."  
"No!" Kosin grasped desperately at his shoulders, tightening his legs around the man's waist. "No, please. You can't leave me with him."  
Malcolm exhaled and dropped his forehead down to touch Kosin's shoulder.  
"Fine. But no more talking."  
Ivan nodded obediently, then added: "Do you want me to cry?"  
Malcolm blinked at him.  
"What?"  
"For them." Kosin jerked his head towards the door, outside of which his father and the sheriff were waiting. "Do you want me to make sure they hear?"  
Malcolm sighed and shook his head.  
"I don't - I don't want you to do anything. Just...lie still."

Kosin nodded and Malcolm gently unhooked the legs from around his back, then stretched out to be more comfortable, balancing his weight on his left arm. Half-lying on Kosin, he began to jerk himself off with his right hand, moving upwards to position himself perfectly. He closed his eyes to do so, and Kosin felt momentarily insulted, but damped it down and was just grateful he wouldn't have to ever go home with Nicolas Kosin again. Briefly, he worried about his jeep. Was it still there? Had someone come for it? Malcolm was groaning softly, preparing to cum. Kosin felt guilty - he should be helping in some way, shouldn't he? But he'd been explicitly told not to. Better not to disobey. Malcolm gasped a little, then moaned - the only warning he gave before shoving his cock flush up against Ivan's cunt and cumming.

"Fuck. Fuck." he held himself there for a few seconds, half-thrusting against Ivan. "Fuck." he opened his eyes, rubbed one hand over them, and pulled himself away. Ivan took this as his cue to move - the sheets beneath him were damp with blood and cum.  
"It's done." Malcolm called out to the closed door and the deputies, sitting up in the bed and reaching for a corner of the sheet to wipe his cock with. "It's finished."


	5. May 7 [Sunday]

Ivan Kosin sat up in bed, his eyes snapping open.   
The man he still had difficulty identifying as his husband sat up as well.  
"What's wrong?" Malcolm Lawdon asked this with the same kind of thin-worn patience that one usually saw on late-shift waitstaff.  
"Nothing. Nothing. I just had a nightmare."

In truth, it had been a waking horror - sleep had been the best of it. Kosin looked out towards the large, plate glass window that occupied most of the wall on Malcolm's side of the bed. Outside, the sun was rising over the mountains. It was morning, then. Early morning, but morning nonetheless. He'd survived the night.  
"Well, it's over now." Malcolm was turning over in the bed to face away from Kosin. "Try to get some sleep."  
Kosin frowned.  
"You're not going to work today?"  
Malcolm laughed.  
"You kidding me? This is my honeymoon."

Kosin shook his head. Supposedly on their honeymoon, and the man wouldn't even fuck him. All he wanted to do was sleep. And talk. Pathetic.  
The use of that word, even in his own head, made something inside him whimper. His father had been an adept wielder of it. That, and disappointment. Mistake. Ugly fucking brat. Kosin squeezed his eyes shut hard and opened them. His father wasn't here. The man had been here, just yesterday, yes, but he was gone now. Gone and couldn't touch him. Unanticipated rage flowed over Kosin suddenly. Anger at his father, at Malcolm, at the sheriff, at himself, at Henrik Angstrom...Henrik, without whom he might still have a job, have a life, have a heart. Henrik, without whom Ivan Kosin might still be a person, and not just a nutless shell of a fucking man.

A hand snaked around Kosin's waist and he tensed, hackles rising.  
"You don't have to touch me all the time."  
Malcolm Lawdon shrugged, the movement of his broad shoulders making the blankets rise and fall. Beneath the edge, Kosin could just catch a glimpse of curly black hair.  
"I like touching you, Mr. Lawdon."  
"It's Ko -" Kosin cut himself off as he realized. Then he laughed, out loud, the irony coming to him suddenly. After all this work, all the wrong roads and stolen jeeps (had it been returned?), Ivan Kosin _had_ , in fact, been killed.


	6. May 10

"Ivan."  
It was still difficult to respond to his first name. He was not Ivan. He was Kosin - that was a name of strength, of determination. It was a name that people feared. Kosin was powerful. Kosin was a man. Ivan was just a small, frightened little boy, slapped and dragged for the hundredth time into his father's study.

Malcolm Lawdon repeated himself.  
" _Ivan_."

To Kosin, the use of his first name by Malcolm Lawdon seemed a particularly awkward stab at familiarity. Not ready to answer to his husband, he stalled, poking around in the cupboard in front of him. Malcolm cleared his throat and tried again.  
"Ivan."  
Kosin sighed and turned.  
"Yes?"  
Chief Malcolm Lawdon, clad in his dark blue cadet sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, sat splay-legged at the thick wooden kitchen breakfast table. Idly, Kosin wondered where he'd gotten that table - it looked handmade, the wood seemed expensive, and the craftsmanship was spectacular. Malcolm pushed his chair back a little and held up a thin white envelope.  
"Letter from the Centre."  
Kosin's stomach plummeted, but he kept his voice neutral.  
"Oh."  
If he appeared disinterested, maybe this conversation could be over faster.  
"They want us to come in for a meeting and a few medicals. And to pick up your stuff. And to schedule your classes and introduction and all that. They say it's urgent - want us in ASAP."  
Kosin's face got a little hot.  
"So you registered me."  
It came out like an accusation, but Ivan didn't know why. Of course his husband had registered him. It would have been required for the marriage license, if nothing else. Lawdon made a helpless gesture with his hands.  
"Two days ago."  
Kosin found a box of oatmeal and retrieved it.  
"What center did you put me in?"  
"They didn't ask me. It's done by region now."  
Kosin paused. That was new.  
"Oh."  
"They put you in Brookham."  
Kosin stared at the oatmeal, wondering whether or not he really wanted to eat it. It was bland, but it wasn't as if he'd be able to stomach much else. It seemed his husband was waiting for some kind of response. He gave the only one he could think of.  
"Oh."  
Malcolm folded his hands together, cocooning his coffee mug. He looked worriedly up at Ivan.  
"Is that OK? I know you...work there."  
Lawdon's innocent understating of the situation at hand would have been endearing if it wasn't so annoying.  
"Used to. Obviously." Kosin snapped.  
Malcolm flinched a little, but went on.  
"If you need to do something else, I can look into - "  
"No, it's - it's fine." Kosin demurred. "I don't need anything."  
Malcolm rolled the mug between his hands.  
"OK. Well, if you decide that you want to do something else - "  
"You'll what? Call the CEC and ask nicely? I'm sure that will make all the difference in the world. It's not necessary, thank you. I'll be fine."

Kosin was overstepping his station, and he knew it, but a loud voice inside of him pressured him to do it. It urged him, egging him perversely onward. Kosin would have never allowed a carrier to speak to him this way, the voice said. Malcolm is weak, it said. On top of everything, your husband is weak. On top of everything...

Malcolm's voice interrupted.  
"Ivan, I know this is hard on you. I'm trying to help - "  
"I don't need any help." Ivan mumbled, wanting but not wanting to be heard. Making his final decision, he took the oatmeal box over to the stove and began to root around for a pot. Lawdon sipped his coffee and watched him.  
"Pots are two cabinets to the left." he suggested, quietly. Ivan found one and began to fill it with water. Malcolm set his mug down.  
"Why don't you tell me what you're thinking about all this."  
Kosin shrugged, his back to his husband.  
"I don't think anything."  
"Bullshit." Kosin shrugged again and poured oatmeal into the water. Malcolm ran a hand through his hair, tangling in the back where sleep had mussed his curls into knots. He sighed. "Ivan, I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Suddenly, the voice was there again, taking shape and form in his mind. Weak, it said. He is weak. Show him how strong you are. Kosin spun to face Malcolm and narrowed his eyes.

"You want to know what I think? I think I'm married to a man who has no idea what he's doing, and no business having a carrier. I think I'm married to a man who doesn't know anything about me, who doesn't understand what a marriage is or should be, who hasn't even proven that he's capable of siring a child, and who may or may not cause my life to end in misery in some senescence center somewhere."  
To his immeasurable credit, Malcolm Lawdon took this in stride.  
"Ah." he said, tilting his head curiously, a light worry flickering in his eyes. "I see."

~:~

The afternoon was a strange experience for Kosin. Malcolm had taken him to bed for a mandatory nap and kept him there under guard. Ivan had slept - fitfully, but woke in a panic a little after 1, convinced that he was late - for a meeting, an interrogation, an evaluation, something. It had taken him almost a full minute to remember where he was. Afterwards, he couldn't get back to sleep. Shortly after that, his body began to ache again.

He got out of bed and went to wash himself and change before the pain overwhelmed him. When he returned, Malcolm still hadn't stirred, and Kosin had been overtaken with a swell of rage, then a weird wondering of What If. Malcolm looked so vulnerable there, sleeping so soundly. Envy chewed at his spine. Kosin had never slept that soundly in his life. Not as a child, not as a young man, and not now, 33 years into this unwinnable game of a life he'd led. Malcolm's neck was exposed - the collar of his grey tshirt had been twisted aside in sleep. Weakness. Kosin stared at him. What If. How long would it take someone to come? They were here alone, in the mountains. Nobody had to know. People went out for walks all the time in the forest and never came back. It could be so easy.

All at once, Ivan realized he was frightening himself.

He went over to the bed and shook his husband awake.

~:~

Before lunch, they had gone outside. Ivan had thought at first that this was a foolish choice, since he could easily have dashed out into the forest, but then he'd remembered that his pain meds were back in the house, locked in the upstairs bathroom cabinet. Malcolm had the key.

On their afternoon walk, Malcolm had shown him more of the house and surrounding property. Malcolm's great-great-grandfather had begun building the house in the previous century, and each generation had added to it, leaving a massive, elegant-though-eclectic structure that overlooked a lush, green valley in the mountains. Malcolm had pointed out the parts that his father had built - in anticipation of the birth of his first child. The unspoken implication for Malcolm's own life hung in the air, and Kosin had scoffed and looked away, measuring in his head the distance to the tree line, just in case.

~:~

Now, after the meal, Ivan had occupied himself with washing the dishes. Malcolm watched him and hesitated before saying:  
"There's a dishwasher, you know."  
Kosin didn't turn around to acknowledge this.  
"I like washing."  
In truth, he did. It was a peculiar trait that had formed as a necessity (his father had abhorred a dirty house) and become a quietly-enjoyed habit.  
Behind him, Malcolm shrugged.

Even taking his time, the dishes were done in ten minutes - too soon for a carrier who wanted to spend as little time as possible in the company of his new husband. Malcolm didn't speak during that time, and the quiet occasional rustling told Kosin that he must still be paging through the local paper.

Ivan stared at the sink for a minute, then lifted and dried each of the dishes individually from the rack. When that, too, was over, he turned back to face Malcolm. The man was staring at him, a look in his eye that may have been meaningless, but startled Ivan nonetheless. Kosin's heartbeat quickened and he looked out of the window.  
"I, um. I need to shower."  
Malcolm folded the paper and stood up, giving Kosin a quick once-over.  
"OK. Are you sure you feel up to it? Do you need anything? Are you in pain?"  
Kosin rolled his eyes.  
"No. I'm - I'm fine."  
Malcolm nodded.  
"Are you sure you don't want to take a bath instead? I can run a bath for you."  
Kosin ground his teeth.  
"I just - " he exhaled impatiently. "I just want to take a shower." he raised his head to look at his husband. "Alone."  
Malcolm nodded.  
"Alright. Well, I'll be right here. If you need anything, just holler."  
Years of government protocol training and an increasing fear of his own anger were all that forced Kosin out of the room without further comment.

In the shower, he touched himself and realized that his cavity was more or less fully formed.

~:~


	7. May 12

The honeymoon was over.

On Friday morning, Malcolm and Ivan got up at 5 a.m., put their bags in the car, and drove the three hours back to Brookham. Ivan was quiet for the first half of the car ride, staring out the passenger window of Malcolm's old black car.  
"Did you remember to bring a copy of the marriage contract?" he asked suddenly, breaking from his reverie with the road. Malcolm glanced over at him and nodded.  
"Yes."  
"OK. Good."

Ivan went back to staring out the window, but his hands were fidgeting in his lap, a tic that Malcolm took to mean his carrier was nervous. He tried to make his voice sound light.  
"It's going to be OK, you know."  
Ivan was silent for a minute, and Malcolm almost thought he hadn't heard. Then he spoke.  
"They're going to examine me."  
Malcolm changed his grip on the steering wheel.  
"Yes. And I'd like to be in the room with you while it happens, if that's OK. I want to make sure you're comfortable and safe."  
Ivan shrugged.  
"I'll be fine." he murmured.  
More silence passed between them.  
"Is there anyone in particular you want me to arrange for you to see while we're at the Centre? I bet people are wondering what happened to you. Is there somebody you want to call?"  
Ivan shook his head.  
"No." he said, still staring at the road. "There's no one."

Malcolm blew a breath out slowly. He'd only been married a week to Ivan Kosin, and he already seemed to be closer to him than anyone else in the world. Absolutely insane, Malcolm thought to himself. Absolutely sick to live a world like this. With no table in the lunchroom, no cards at the winter holidays, no small talk in the office break room, no inquiring minds or phone calls on the weekends or boozing on birthdays. Just nothing. No thing at all. And to have only a father who prostituted his own son as your home.

Malcolm cleared his throat.  
"Are you going to be OK at Brookham, Ivan? Really think about it. Because if you even feel like you might need to go somewhere else - "  
"I don't need - " Ivan snapped out before he stopped himself. His fingers worked hard on the bottom button of his borrowed shirt, buttoning and unbuttoning it as if the answer might be just through the next buttonhole. Ivan opened his mouth as if to finish, and Malcolm braced himself for the rest of the tirade, but it never came. Instead, Ivan retreated into silence. But another mile or so down the road, in a very tired voice, he finished what he'd meant to say.  
"I don't need anything."

~:~

Ivan had spent most of the car ride imagining just how bad it could possibly be. Of course, the horrors he had imagined had been completely wrong; everything, in fact, was worse.

Malcolm carried two of their three bags into the Centre - his own overnighter and Kosin's bag of stuff that he had to return. Knowing the process already, Ivan had moved preemptively; they had stopped by his office on base this morning and gone through as much of his stuff as they could manage in an hour. The most counterfeit items had been stuffed into the duffel bag, to be turned in at the Centre.

There was a carrier Kosin recognized at the front desk, which was his first indication that the day was not going to go well. The young man looked up, startled and wary, at Kosin and Malcolm's approach, sat a little straighter in his chair, widened his eyes, and folded his hands on the desk.  
"Officer Kosin! Good morning, sir. How may I help you?"  
Kosin stood there for a second, paralyzed with uncertainty. Was this a game? His hands shook as he took his ID out of his pocket and slid it across the desk. Perhaps he could fudge his way through all of this if he kept things short and undecorated.  
"I need to speak with an intake officer."  
"Certainly. Just a moment, sir."

The carrier's eyes slid over to Malcolm curiously and with a vague look of pity as he took the ID and began to type into his console. Ivan was able to identify the exact moment the man figured things out, because the typing stopped and the carrier looked up at him with a strange expression, then got up and indiscreetly rushed over to whisper something to the other front desk staff.

Kosin set his jaw and focused on the clock above the desk. One minute ticked by, then two. Three.   
Malcolm squeezed his hand and Ivan realized someone was talking to him.  
"Take your folder, Ivan." Kosin reached out and took the blue folder that was lying on the desktop in front of him. 'Ivan Lawdon' was printed across the front in the cutesy block letters that the intake officers always used, and when Ivan looked up from noticing that, the carrier behind the desk was smirking at him.  
"Welcome to the Brookham Carrier Education Centre, Mr. Lawdon. I'm sure you'll have a great time here."

~:~

Ivan spent the morning with three other carriers in a Carrier Health & Anatomy Condensed Seminar. The CS courses were held in a separate wing of the CEC, and so Ivan had been blessedly excused from the whispers and pointed stares that he knew he'd receive from the rest of the CEC population. From the minute he'd heard he was registered, he'd known what the result was going to be. They were going to hate him. They had hated him before, but then it had been mitigated by fear - held back by the vaguest understanding of the kind of power Kosin had wielded. But now…nothing. He had no power, no protection, no defense. This frightened Ivan, because he was a man who loved power above all things, but in some small way, it also relieved him. He had come, as so many had done before him, to make a confession, serve his penance, and move on with his life.

Three hours into the class, and yet the lecturer was still rambling on. Ivan glared at the man (which had no effect), shifted in his chair, and wondered again what incompetent interviewer had hired the lazy professor in front of him. Although some of his boredom could be attributed to his prior experience - Ivan already being well-versed in carrier health and anatomy - there was a significant element that could be blamed on the professor's monotone.

So instead of listening, Ivan had spent the morning doodling geometric shapes on the notebook the CEC had provided and wondering what Malcolm was learning across the hall. It was going to be lunchtime soon.

On the heels of that realization, dreadful thoughts struck him. Would he have to dine with Malcolm? In the eating hall? Was there a dining room in this wing, separate, for the day learners? This was one part of the carrier process which was completely unfamiliar to Ivan. As an Investigator, he'd worked primarily with regular-process carriers…there'd never been any reason for him to have contact with the day learners. These were men who usually had had too little time to even understand what had happened to them, let alone go around causing trouble about it. They were the shell-shocked and the numb, the captured and the already-owned. They had people at home to deal with their problems.

Struck with a sudden curiosity about the mass of human misery in the room with him, Ivan began glancing furtively around at the other carriers. Two were clearly officers - young, of fighting build, but with lines of stress around their mouths and a wildness in their red eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep. They had been discovered, Ivan surmised. Probably tried to hide the change until they couldn't any longer. Who had taken them? Commanding Officers, probably. That was the most common. Ivan looked at their faces. No bruises. Men of class, then. Higher-ups. They wouldn't dare do something so gauche as leave a mark; they were respectful.

Of the two ex-officer carriers, one had pale skin and light brown hair, grown far past the length accepted for officers. Not long enough to indicate a life of carrierhood; maybe just a few months. He'd been kept for some time, then, before coming here. He'd been sequestered. That, too, was common. He was staring straight ahead, focused attentively on the speaker, and he took profuse notes. He was trying hard to be on his best behavior, Kosin figured, probably under threat of a severe beating. Those carriers were the worst kind - the ones who only found their motivation at the end of a lash. Kosin watched him for a minute. The man glanced at Ivan, blinked curiously, then looked away. Kosin frowned and turned away. He wasn't here to make friends.

The other officer had the caramel skin and black hair of a Southerner, and looked significantly more relaxed than his counterpart. Southerners tended to be that way, he'd noticed. They took the change more easily. Kosin had hardly ever had to beat a Southerner.

The third carrier in the class seemed young, barely 16, and had the gangly look of a farm boy about him. A local kid, then, from one of the rural towns still surviving in the hills nearby. Dirt poor, most likely. The families of that type, if given the choice, always sent them to Brookham. For most of them, the inside of the CEC was a place of unimaginable luxury. The farm kid wasn't looking up at the speaker, and definitely not at the anatomical slides. He just shyly stared down at his notebook and kicked the leg of his chair. An evangelistic upbringing, then. Kosin tilted his head curiously. Who owned him? Probably the wealthiest man in town; the biggest local landowner. Whoever had paid the most cattle. That would probably be an older man, maybe in his early fifties. Most likely distrustful of the government and worried about the CEC corrupting his little precious. That was why they'd settled on the shorter CS classes; he wouldn't have let the kid go away for a month. Either that, or the kid was knocked up already and they didn't have the time to spare. That could be the case. That was how things out in the countryside usually went. When the boy shifted in his chair, Kosin noticed the swelling of a small gut on him. Ten points for a correct answer, Ivan awarded himself.

Suddenly, the slideshow went off at the front of the room and the speaker was looking brightly at them.  
"Well, carriers, that's lunchtime!"

~:~

Lunch in the cafeteria was bad - awful, in fact. Ivan's office hadn't been far from here; just up the stairs into the administrative section, first door on the right. He had come down for lunch often, because it allowed him to check in, to observe, and to be seen and feared. By the time he had started at Brookham, Officer Kosin had been a master at what he did. A legend. The younger officers feared him; the carriers feared him. The other Investigators admired him. He was the most loved, the most loyal, the most celebrated servant to the higher offices, and he had been untouchable. Now, he was a joke.

Kosin trembled, and couldn't stop trembling, no matter how much he insulted himself for it. He ran a self-conscious hand over his hair. Ignore it. Ignore it. _Don't let them in. Don't let them get you._  
Silently, Ivan followed the rest of the CS group, their seminar teacher leading the way, up to the check-in lines for the cafeteria.   
The whispers started while he was still in the hall. What was Officer Kosin doing in a CS group? Was he observing them now, too? Why has he dressed that way? Then the answers, the damning answers. Didn't you hear? He's one of us now.

By the time he made it into the food line, the whisper was a full-blown rumble. _Ignore it_. Kosin tried to focus on the menu, but he felt sick all of a sudden, and not in a mood to eat. He lost his group inside the eating area, and looked around in a panic to find them. But the room was beginning to crowd, and it was difficult to make out four strangers' faces.  
It was easier to find people he recognized.

Here and there, shifting through the crowd, their eyes on him, were men he'd beaten, men he'd punished, men he'd threatened and men on whom his threats had been carried out. Men who had not forgotten him, and probably never would. Kosin stared at his tray until it was his turn in line, then he ordered numbly and stared at the menu until the food came. Luckily, he didn't know any of the chefs.

The whispers continued. That wasn't the worst part. The silence was the worst part. The cold, angry, silent stares. Kosin took some comfort in the lack of open antagonism to him - they were still scared, he realized. Still trying to figure it out. Like vultures circling a lion - leaping too soon could be a fatal mistake. So that must mean that they weren't sure yet. Everything was still just a rumor, backed up only by some dubious evidence and the fact that he'd come into the Centre acting strangely. If they were sure, it would have been worse. Maybe it was better he'd lost his seminar group. Being seen with them would only give credence to the talk. Kosin straightened his shoulders up. _Be tall. Be firm. Don't let them in_. He tried to look like himself, to feel like himself, to be himself. It was impossible, with the aching feeling of emptiness between his legs and the peculiar rush of...something he got whenever he thought about his own last name.

 _Go. Sit. Eat._ He tried to give himself simple commands. Ignore. Sit. Eat. Every table he passed hastily became occupied. Kosin ended up eating as he had only a few times before, standing alone at one of the ledges lining the wall of the cafeteria. In this place, there seemed some refuge; the whispers diminished. He stared at his plate. A sandwich, carrots, a cookie. Six vitamins, two of which were obviously medicinal, one of which was obviously the relaxant he'd been prescribed at his entry evaluation. Fucking psychologists. He didn't want their pills. He didn't want his food either, but he couldn't get out of here without eating at least 60% of what he'd been given. The monitors were strict about that rule. At least they should be, Kosin reflected - he'd fired two and disciplined five of them to make it so.

He ate most of the sandwich and half of the cookie. He tasted the carrots, but they seemed to make his nerves and his nausea worse and so he left them. He glanced at the clock. 32 minutes left. He wondered where he could go - he wasn't sure what would be allowed. He had an appointment to go to his office after classes with Malcolm. They were going to pack his things. First the office, then the apartment.

Across the cafeteria, he recognized the usual stern visage of his neighbor and colleague, Mac Scarborough. Scarborough was two years Kosin's junior and also in the Investigator program. They had shared an office wall, making Mac the closest thing Ivan had to a friend. Kosin picked up his tray and made his way over to the man's table.  
"Mac. Hey."  
The officer looked up from his coffee slowly, suspiciously. His eyes did something funny when he saw Kosin, but Ivan didn't notice. He was too relieved to see someone - anyone who didn't have a death wish waiting for him in their stare. Kosin reached out to shake his hand, balancing his tray on his hip. Mac ignored the outstretched hand, lifting his coffee in greeting instead.  
"Kosin. You're looking well."  
Kosin's relief faltered. Mac's voice was cold. Ivan swallowed and tried again.  
"Thanks. It's - I've been on leave."  
Mac blinked at him for a moment, then his expression turned to an indulgent smile.  
"Of course. Sure have missed your smiling face around the office."  
Kosin understood Mac's implication: If you're going to tell lies, so will I. Kosin stood there, staring at him for a minute, his palms getting sweaty from gripping the tray. He could hear the whispers again.  
"I changed, Mac."  
"I know."  
Ivan nodded, his eyes suddenly feeling particularly itchy and beginning to sting.  
"You know."  
Mac indicated the room. When Kosin looked up, half the faces looked away.  
"We all know."  
Ivan swallowed and nodded quickly.  
"Yeah. Yeah. I just, um - "  
"Was there something you needed, Carrier Lawdon?" Mac cut in coolly. Kosin froze, completely taken aback. He shook his head, trying to recover. Everything was different. Everything was spinning out from under him.  
"No. No, I just - just came over to say hi."  
Mac stared at him for a long time, and for the first time, Ivan noticed how dark those icy blue eyes could look.  
"Hi."

Somehow, Mac made that single syllable into a direct insult, and Kosin felt a strange aching in his chest. He wondered if his heart were dying or simply wounded.  
"Yes," he heard himself saying, "OK. Well, I'll just leave you to it. Nice seeing you again, Mac."  
Kosin didn't even get a reply.

~:~

He made it through lunch, and afternoon seminar (on marriage & sexuality), and dinner with Malcolm. He made it through his office - ransacked, for supplies and to remove sensitive documents. His case files had been transferred to his colleagues. He made it to his apartment - spartan as ever, but clear it had been searched. Malcolm helped him pack everything. Malcolm helped him clean, helped him divide and place in boxes and decide what to keep and what to throw away.

After they last bin was sealed up and labeled, they went to evening seminar together. In the hall on the way there, they ran into another of the couples from the seminar. It was the brown-haired ex-officer carrier, being led by the elbow by a rather severe-looking officer of indeterminate middle age.  
"Keith!"  
Upon hearing his name, the officer turned and, spotting Malcolm, smiled.  
"Malcolm, hey!" he released his carrier, who jerked a little, and walked towards Malcolm. "And this must be your carrier." he said, turning his attention to Kosin and sticking his hand out. "Colonel Keith Vance."  
Kosin hesitated for a moment before shaking the man's outstretched hand.  
"Ivan Lawdon."  
The man smiled and then gestured to his companion.  
"Introduce yourself, sweetheart."  
The brown-haired man lifted his head and glanced a curious glance at his husband before extending his hand; first to Ivan, then Malcolm.  
"I'm Charlie Vance." The young man glanced once more at his husband, then back to Ivan. "You were in my seminar this morning." he added, earnestly.  
Ivan nodded, not really feeling like talking to anyone, let alone an overzealous carrier stranger.  
"Yes, I suppose I was."  
Charlie looked as if he wanted to say something more, but hesitated and shut his mouth instead. Malcolm gave Charlie an amused grin.  
"Pretty verbose pair, the two of you." Malcolm joked.

Ivan threw a look of disgusted annoyance at Malcolm, but his husband ignored it. Keith glanced at his watch.  
"Five minutes. I guess we should go in."  
Malcolm nodded.  
"I'd say so. You ready, Ivan?" he reached out to grab hold of Kosin's hand, but the carrier snatched it away.  
"I'm not in the mood for touching."  
Malcolm rolled his eyes and grinned.  
"You're never in the mood for touching. Besides, it's not touching. It's _handholding_."  
Malcolm tried to reach for him again, but Kosin crossed his arms over his notebook, holding it tight against his chest.  
" **Don't** touch me." he hissed, but kept his voice low.  
Colonel Keith Vance tilted his head slightly, a curious expression on his face. Malcolm sighed and raised his hands in surrender.  
"OK. Fine. I won't touch you."  
With another annoyed glare, Kosin turned on his heel and went on into the classroom.

Keith watched the carrier depart for a minute, then reached out and squeezed Charlie's hand.  
"Hey, why don't you go on after him? He seems like he's had a pretty tough day."  
Charlie blinked at Keith, then glanced at Malcolm and nodded.  
"OK."  
Keith leaned forward and kissed his carrier's forehead.  
"I'll see you in there in a minute."  
Charlie nodded and went after Kosin. Keith and Malcolm both watched him for a few moments until he disappeared into the classroom.

Then Keith, a frown crossing his face, said gently to Malcolm,  
"You know...you really shouldn't let him talk to you like that."


	8. Week Three, May

Malcolm Lawdon stared glumly at the binder sitting open in front of him. Across the table, Keith Vance was sheltered behind an open newspaper, moving it only occasionally as he reached out for bites of his lunch sandwich.

Malcolm looked back down at the notebook in front of him. Distaste for the topic was threatening to overwhelm him. He shook his head and pushed his chair back from the table, exhaling.  
"I don't know. I just don't know what to think about all this stuff, Keith."

The newspaper across from him folded halfway down, and Keith Vance peered out across the table at his new friend.  
"About all what stuff?"  
"All this psychological mumbo-jumbo. All these mind games. It's too...complicated."  
"Carriers are complicated." Keith replied, simply. Malcolm frowned, and the man sitting across from him glanced to the side, then sighed and folded his newspaper down. "Listen, Malcolm. Take it from me - as someone who's been with his carrier for...well, longer than you've been with yours - trust me: you need this. _They_ need this. They need to know that you're in control. They _like_ knowing that you're in control."

Malcolm looked uncomfortable, and Keith repositioned himself, leaning forward over the table, placing his feet flat on the floor, and facing Malcolm fully.  
"Listen. You want Ivan to respect you, don't you?"  
Malcolm hesitated.  
"I don't want to hurt him."  
Keith stared at Malcolm evenly for a moment, then cocked his head.  
"Really? You don't? Ever? You don't ever get angry with him?"  
Malcolm stared back.  
"I would never hurt him."  
Keith leaned closer.  
"But have you ever _wanted_ to?"  
Malcolm swallowed.  
"No."  
Keith raised an eyebrow.  
"Really? Never? Not even when he's rude to you? Mean? He can act like a spoiled little brat, Ivan can. I've seen it. The way he talks to you - my word, man! And after all you do for him. You provide for him, keep him out of trouble, out of harm's way...and he can't even spare a kind hello? You give him the clothes on his back and the food on his plate and he won't even fuck you."  
Malcolm snapped his head up.   
"That's not - "  
Keith held up a hand to cut him off.  
"Malcolm. It's obvious."  
There was a moment of silence.  
"I was going to say 'that's not your business.'"  
Keith shrugged.  
"All I know is it's enough to drive a man crazy." he paused. "And it's enough, realistically," he continued, "to make a man angry; angry enough to do some things he wouldn't ordinarily do."  
Malcolm's eyes narrowed.  
"I don't want to hurt him." he repeated, voice tightening.  
Keith nodded sympathetically.  
"I know." he said, agreeably, "But you will. You already are. Because you want to know the worst thing, Malcolm? The thing that's really hurting Ivan is your inexperience, your ignorance, and your laziness in allowing things to stay the way they are."  
Malcolm's gaze darkened, but Keith Vance's arrows had struck their target; the man listened. Keith went on.  
"Becoming a carrier is one of the most intense, most frightening, most self-shattering emotional experiences any human can live through. Remember that. This is all new for Ivan. Everything is changing. Nothing feels real to him right now - nothing feels legitimate. All the starting lines have moved. He's lost." Keith tapped the notebook on the table between them. "But you can find him again. You can help him feel real again. You can give him that safety - that _security_ to comfortably explore his new world. You can be his unchanging safeguard in a terrifying place of uncertainty. You can help him, Malcolm."  
Keith's voice was earnest, and Malcolm looked up at his friend, then down at the book.  
"But what if he doesn't want - "  
"He doesn't know what he wants right now." Keith shook his head. "He's a carrier, and just turned. He's not in his right mind. You are. You're his husband. You're a grown man, with some real challenges and real responsibilities. Fulfill your role and there could be a real reward. Fail and - well..."

Keith let the horrors of his potential meaning drift unsaid between them; after a minute, Malcolm exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. Keith settled back, adopting an indifferent tone.

"But it really is your choice to make, Malcolm. He's your carrier. This your life. You can be a little boy and take it all lying down, or you can stand up and be a man."

~:~

"Where are we going?"  
Malcolm looked up from his book, peering at Ivan over the lens of his reading glasses.  
"To dinner. I told you that."

Kosin was standing in front of his husband wearing jeans and a clean white t shirt, per Malcolm's request. His husband folded a piece of scrap paper into the page he'd been reading and closed the book. Ivan fidgeted as Malcolm looked him over appraisingly.  
"You look very nice." he looked down at Ivan's feet. "Don't walk around barefoot. You'll get cold."  
Ivan self-consciously crossed one foot over the other one. Malcolm was right, but he wasn't about to admit that.  
"I'm fine."  
Malcolm didn't even look up from re-opening the book.  
"Don't walk around barefoot. You'll get cold." he repeated. Ivan ignored him and uncrossed his feet, then crossed them again.  
"We're just going to dinner?" he asked.  
Malcolm didn't look up.  
"Just dinner."

Ivan bit his lip and left the room. He didn't like this. Not at all.

It was Friday evening by then, and just that morning, Ivan had woken up in a luxuriously empty bed and praised the peace and quiet. He'd gotten up and peed, then gone back to bed and laid quietly for almost another hour before he got up and put himself into the shower. Not a sound came from anywhere in the house. He had walked, still dripping, out of the bathroom and gotten back into the bed to enjoy some much-desired sleep.

All week, Ivan had been busy. This was because all week, Malcolm had been acting...different. Ivan had yet to puzzle it out, but it was as if his husband suddenly had little to no interest in his carrier wife, but simultaneously was more aware of him than ever before. He'd stopped spoiling Ivan - there had been a drastic decline in offers to run baths, to make his favorite foods, to take him into town. At the same time, there had been a rather sharp increase in the amount of oversight Malcolm apparently felt authorized to exercise over Ivan's behavior in the house. There were, for example, notes everywhere, scrawled in Malcolm's heavy lines and dated:  
 **Stop drinking the vodka.  
Extra toothpaste can be found in the bottom drawer. Alcohol is not a substitute.  
Clean dishes, please.  
Clean dishes, now.  
Clean dishes TODAY or there will be consequences.**

~

On Monday, Ivan had unpacked most of his clothes and all of the books they'd allowed him to keep (two - The Stoics, and an old Russian copy of The Little Prince that had been an ages-ago birthday gift), as well as all the new ones they'd sent home with him. Ivan had glanced only cursorily over the titles; he planned to read them only under threat or duress. Most of his papers and notebooks had been confiscated, but he still had the box of journals that he had kept since he was seven. He had spent the better part of the day deciding where to hide them. Then he had taken a nap in the afternoon, watched two government movies on television, and been asleep for good by the time Malcolm got home.

~

On Tuesday, he had woken late and bathed - his first bath since he'd changed because before, his body had been too sensitive to be touched directly by the hot water. In the bath, he'd made himself comfortable; reclined and slung his legs out over the edge. Too long, he'd thought, staring at his legs. His father had always thought so; said they made him look disproportionate. Said it was unattractive.

Suddenly frustrated with himself for remembering something so silly, Ivan intentionally splashed his legs back under the water and switched his thoughts to something else. He dipped one hand down, rippling the surface of the water to slip across his belly, then pubis, then down around his cock. He grasped it lightly, uncertainly, as though it belonged to a stranger. Every part of his body felt as though it belonged to a stranger. He thoughtfully ran his fingers through the thatch of hair that sheltered his cock and stared up at the ceiling. He should shave, he thought. A hirsute carrier was a crime against humanity. His legs had begun to feel achy and he lifted them out again, troubling the water as each one broke the surface. They could use a shave as well, he had thought, especially if he was going to wear a natori. Was he going to wear a natori? He hadn't yet. Malcolm would like it, he'd bet. All men did.

That thought had spurred something in Ivan suddenly, and rebelliousness and resentment rose up within him and devoured his rationality. If Malcolm wanted him to wear a natori, Malcolm could fucking well make him. And if Malcolm wanted Ivan's legs or his pussy shaved, then he could fucking well make him do that, too. Ivan attacked the water suddenly, splashing little droplets all around and causing small bubbles to fly into his hair his eyes, against the walls. After four minutes of flailing, Ivan had stopped, exhausted, done with rabblerousing himself. He sat up in the tub and tucked his legs back under the water so that he wouldn't have to look at them. He was again in bed before Malcolm ever came home.

~

On Wednesday, he had gone out to the laundry annex that attached to the southwest part of the house, carrying his own clothes in a dirty pillowcase. In the main room of the annex, he had pointedly stepped over the baskets of Malcolm's laundry on his way to the machines. Everything he'd brought from his apartment needed washing, as well as the sheets that had been on their bed the past two weeks, and the set he'd colorfully decorated when he'd bled through his clothes the first night he was there.

He had found washing powder, softener, scraps of fabric for mending, and bleach in the adjoining supply room. The main room had four pairs of machines, and so Ivan had set all the clothes to wash at once. That done, feeling pleased at his own easy transition into domesticity, he had allowed himself to wander into the large, one-room library that connected the oldest and second-oldest wings of the house. In the evening, he had made himself an oatmeal and vegetable dinner and taken his vitamins (picking out and tossing their pharmaceutical accompaniments). Malcolm had arrived home early that night, given Ivan a cursory greeting, and spent the rest of the evening holed up with some occupation or another in his study.

~

On Thursday, Ivan woke earlier than he intended to and went down to make himself breakfast in the kitchen. He ate toast and oatmeal and milk and eggs and fruit and paged through two of the cheap-looking paperbacks he'd borrowed from the library the day before. In the cold light of day, neither looked appealing. Ivan didn't know why he'd picked them up. He had wandered back to the library to replace them, then taken himself for a long walk through the grounds outside. By the time he'd come back, Malcolm had been to the house and left again. There was a new note on the kitchen's back door.  
 **Don't wander outside alone.**

~

So the first four days had been fine - Monday through Thursday, Ivan had kept himself occupied and had little to no thought of exactly what he was going to do about everything. As long as he kept moving, kept waking up and doing, he felt sure he could survive this. In fact, he had welcomed the solitude of an empty house in the forest and an invisible husband as a nice change from the constant bustle of the CEC.

But now it was Friday, and Ivan was still eating every meal alone, and the isolation was beginning to wear on him. Just a little bit. He looked at the clock. It was 10 am. If he were back at Brookham, he'd have had three meetings and tongue-lashed a subordinate by now. There would be cases to revisit in the afternoon. Calls to make. Carriers to see.  
Ivan made himself some coffee and watched a pair of rabbits chase each other in the grass.

By noon, the house had begun to feel strange. Ivan had heard creaks, thought they were footsteps, and had tensed himself to fight on more than one occasion. He had also thought about Malcolm - why had his husband suddenly disappeared? It was unsettling.

Ivan had just been feeling as if he were getting a handle on Malcolm - simple guy, clean cut, probably protestant. Liked some responsibility but not too much; not cut from the ambitious, alpha-male set that populated the upper echelons of the military government. Malcolm was much more middle-level. Middling. Steady. He'd been anxious the day they had signed the papers at the station, and done a poor job of hiding it, too. He had been uneasy and he kept touching his ear - a nervous tell.  
Had probably never thought he'd be lucky enough to land a carrier, and that explained why, for the first week, he'd seemed dedicated to spending every waking moment with Ivan.  
But now?  
Nothing.

Ivan worried his lip. Had he done something? He scanned over the past weeks in his mind. He had done a lot of things. Maybe one thing had set Malcolm off. If it had, Ivan thought bitterly, this was a childish way of dealing with it. Better to confront. Better to fight, and have it out and the wound seared silent.  
Was Malcolm angry with him?  
Ivan felt assured he could handle an angry Malcolm just as well as a calm one, but Ivan had learned from experience that no victory is ever assured.  
This worried him. The house's silence worried him, and Malcolm's disappearance worried him, but his own ignorance worried him most of all.  
Ivan really didn't like this, but recognizing there wasn't much to be done about it, he decided he'd better occupy his afternoon.

He made himself oatmeal with honey for lunch and wandered through the downstairs of every wing of the house twice. Then he went back and wandered the upstairs of each. Ivan tidied as he went - habits learned from his father and the Academy died hard, and if his husband did have some issue with him, he might be less inclined to anger in a tidy house. Immediately after thinking this, he remembered, in startlingly great clarity, that a tidy house had never deflected his father's anger. Ivan stared at his hands.  
Don't let it in, he reminded himself.  
Don't let him in.  
He felt the urge to cry suddenly, but became so enraged with himself for wanting to do so that his anger stopped the tears. He would be fine. Ivan would always be fine.  
Besides, Malcolm probably wasn't nearly so strict. Ivan noticed a vase that was just out of place on its table and moved it to the left.  
Still, there was no telling.

~

Later on in the morning, Ivan found a stack of puzzles in a closet and considered doing one of them. He had peered at the box for a half a minute before getting embarrassed and putting it back - he had never done a puzzle before and wasn't sure how difficult it would be. The last thing his psyche needed now was failure at a simple task. Suddenly hungry, he left the older wings and headed back towards his own.

At 12:43, the front door suddenly creaked and keys jangled in the lock just as Ivan was passing by the foyer. This startled him enough to make him jump and knock into a bent tin full of umbrellas that had been placed recklessly close to the door. They fell calamitously, startling Ivan further.

Voices, raised in happy conversation, filtered in from outside the door, and Ivan rushed to pick the mess up; not wanting to be caught squatting over a mess on the floor, he ended up just kicking it all against the wall and hoping it would go unseen. Laughter filtered through the opening door, and Ivan waited tensely to see who was in the group. Malcolm's voice, low and heavy, was easy to pick out.

After a few seconds, the door swung back fully to reveal Malcolm, followed by the older man that Kosin remembered from that night at his jeep, the young deputy who Kosin remembered had brought him into the room where his father was waiting, and another man, not in uniform. Ivan froze in the hall for a moment in a mixture of surprise, irritation and embarrassment - why had he stood here like an eager child by the door? Here he was, wearing pajamas in the afternoon and wandering the halls like a bored housewife, standing over a pile of toppled umbrellas. Whether he knew these men or not, he didn't need to look stupid in front of them.

The men all looked at Ivan. Malcolm glanced sidelong at them, then back at Kosin. Slowly, he greeted him.  
"Hello, Ivan."  
As if he were somehow implying that he hadn't expected his own carrier to be there. Ivan frowned.  
"Hi."  
Malcolm blinked at him for just one more second, then, as easily as if Ivan were never there, turned back to carry on his conversation. The other men followed Malcolm's pattern, not even acknowledging Ivan as they trooped past him down the hall and into the kitchen.

Ivan did not like this at all.

~:~

"If it's just dinner, then why is there a uniform?"  
Malcolm was frowning down at his book and didn't answer. Kosin waited, then exhaled in annoyance, but refused to ask again.  
"What are you wearing?" he finally tried. "How come I have to wear this?"  
Malcolm looked at his watch, then folded the scrap paper back into the book and set it aside. He took off his glasses, folded them, and set them on top. Ivan shifted his weight loudly from foot to foot and crossed his arms over his chest. Malcolm's aloofness, or silent treatment, or whatever the fuck it was, was getting extremely irritating. Finally, after checking his watch one more time, Malcolm looked up at Kosin.  
"We are going to dinner. You are wearing what you are wearing because I asked you to. I am going to wear whatever I like."  
Ivan rolled his eyes and glared at the ceiling.  
"Don't talk to me like I'm your - "  
" **Enough** talking back, Ivan."

Kosin's flicked his eyes back to Malcolm, and his heart sped up a little. Malcolm had a strange tone in his voice, a harshness that Kosin hadn't heard before. His face had a stony cast to it; his eyes were unreadable, but Ivan thought he had caught a glint of something, briefly - anger? Kosin kept his eyes on his husband; neutral, waiting. Malcolm blinked and his expression resumed its usual calm. He stretched luxuriously, popping vertebrae in his back, then placed both hands on his knees and made to stand up.

"We'll leave in about ten minutes. We'll need time to get there. The place we're going is closer to town."

~:~

They turned off onto a short, narrow road, crudely sign-marked as Princes Street. A quarter-mile farther down, they slowed to a stop in front of a large iron gate. Malcolm put the window down and pulled up to a keypad located off to the left side, then pulled a small square of paper from his front shirt pocket and began pressing numbers in. Ivan watched him, nervously, and fidgeted.  
"What's the code?" he asked suddenly. Malcolm just smiled benevolently at him and folded the paper back into his pocket. Then he leaned out and swiped a blank ID card, also produced from the same pocket. Ivan began to fidget more. If there was one thing Ivan did not like, it was being inside of a cage that he couldn't get out of. Malcolm pulled the car forward; the gates closed behind them. They began the drive up the lane.

They stopped in front of a large, sprawling estate house, and Ivan leaned forward and peered through the car window at the big brick construction. It looked unusual, out of place in the landscape.  
"Is this house new?"  
Malcolm also looked out at it. Windows were lit up on all three floors.  
"Built a few years back, I believe."  
Interesting, considering the apparent size of the place.

Malcolm pulled the car around the entryway loop and nosed it into a spot on a gravel area off to the left of the house. Ivan noticed that a number of other vehicles - two SUVs and three cars - were also parked there.  
"Who else is here?"  
Malcolm put the car into park, turned off the ignition and looked over at his spouse. The dome light cast shadows over his face.  
"Other couples." he waited a beat. "Ivan, everything is OK. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. It's just dinner. You will be fine."  
Ivan looked sharply over his shoulder, then turned his focus back to the unfamiliar brick house.  
"I haven't made it this far by believing everyone who's ever told me that."  
Malcolm shrugged.  
"Well. You can believe me. I'm your husband." he pocketed the keys and opened his door. "Besides, I think you'll have fun."  
Malcolm got out of the car, and Kosin let himself out of the other side.

As they approached the red painted front door, the sounds of music and conversation became more obvious. Ivan glanced sidelong at Malcolm, who smiled and confidently and strode up to the entrance. Two chaperones who had been standing on either side of the door moved to stand in front of it. Ivan felt his heart pulse at the sight of them. He was no longer in command of these machines - they were a threat to him, strange beasts who could reach out and break and injure and devour him. Malcolm reached between them for the door knocker.

After only a brief wait, voices and footsteps inside indicated that someone was coming. The door opened and presented a smiling and somewhat-drunk Charlie Vance.  
"Hi, Ivan! Hi, Malcolm! Come on in!" Charlie threw one arm out clumsily in welcome. Ivan exhaled and threw an accusatory glare at Malcolm.  
"You could have just told me it was their house."  
Malcolm smiled back at Charlie, who was looking at them in happy expectation.  
"No," he answered, aside, to Ivan, "I couldn't have. Now be nice."  
Malcolm stepped across the threshold into the doorway, leaving Ivan to follow behind him.

Inside, the house was warm and alive with lights and people. Malcolm, noticing Charlie's bare feet and the row of shoes in the hall, toed his own off and indicated for Ivan to do the same. Just as he was straightening up again, a familiar voice boomed down the hall.  
"Charlie, who's at the - ah! Malcolm! Ivie! You made it!"  
Keith Vance rounded the corner and grinned at them both. He shook Malcolm's hand first, then reached out for Ivan's. Ivan stared at it.  
"It's Ivan." he told the hand. "Not Ivie."  
Unfazed, Keith grinned and sought out, then took Ivan's hand anyway.  
"Ivan. Of course. Good to see you!"  
Charlie appeared beside his husband then, slipping one arm around his waist, and Ivan caught a whiff of alcohol come off of him. Keith indulgently patted Charlie's hand and then caught it when it tried to sneak under his shirt.  
"Charlie," he said, his voice only slightly warning, "Later."  
Charlie pouted suitably, looking so much like a perfect little carrier that Ivan was briefly disgusted. The man he'd met the other day hadn't seemed as vapid as this. Keith was looking back and forth between Ivan and Malcolm, grinning wide.  
"Well, why don't you both come on in and meet everybody? I've told them all about you, and they're all really glad you could make it here!"  
Ivan's eyes threw daggers so viciously at Malcolm that, had his husband taken any notice, he would have surely been killed, or at least brought to tears. Instead, Malcolm stepped forward, keeping pace with Keith Vance (who had disengaged himself from Charlie), as he headed down the hall.

That left just Ivan and Charlie, whom Ivan belatedly realized was wearing the same thing as he was - loose jeans and a white shirt. If he'd been a bit more of a carrier, Ivan thought bitterly, he might have been offended. He decided to take offense on principle of having something to bring up with Malcolm later.  
Charlie walked a surprisingly straight line over to Ivan and took his arm.  
"Come onnn!" he told him. "All of us are inside."

The hall led into a foyer, from which a larger living room and, further on, a dining room were visible. Ivan never saw that far, however - as soon as he got a full view of the first room, he stopped short. Perched on couches, on chairs, and on the floor in various stages of repose, were a dozen carriers, all of whom looked up eagerly when he walked in. Ivan ground his jaw. He was going to kill Malcolm Lawdon.

~:~

"This way," Keith was saying. "We're all through here."  
Malcolm followed him farther down the hallway, past the room full of carriers and into a room with a large banquet table. Men were scattered around in groups - three conversing heatedly in a circle in the far corner; four playing cards at the end of the table, two chatting as they mixed themselves drinks at the bar. Keith introduced him to everyone, but in the whirlwind of names, personalities, drink preferences and companions, Malcolm could remember only two - Tom, the mechanical engineer drinking whiskey neat and Jake, the mechanical engineer drinking rum and cola. Keith indicated the table.

"Grab a seat, Malcolm. It's nearly dinnertime. And until then..." he produced a brandy-colored drink from somewhere and scooted it across the table towards Malcolm. "Drink. Enjoy."  
Malcolm nodded, but his mind was racing circles. As soon as he took his first sip, Keith asked him,  
"So, has it been working?"  
The four men in the card game looked up in interest.  
The one wearing the poker visor spoke around the toothpick in his mouth.  
"Working? You've given him an assignment already?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Malcolm. Keith, looking self-satisfied, shook his head.  
"Not exactly. But I prescribed a strict diet of attention restriction. Weeklong. Wanted them both to come here hungry."

Malcolm laughed, almost choking on his drink.  
"I don't think Ivan's exactly 'hungry' for my attention." he shook the glass a little to redistribute the ice, "Pretty sure he'd prefer if I left alone all the time. Don't think he much cares whether I pay attention to him at all."  
Keith patted Malcolm's shoulder and the visor guy grinned.  
"Oh, believe me, he cares. They all care."  
Visor guy nodded.  
"Chesney's the same way. He's just prideful; won't let it show that he wants you around." quickly, his eyes flicked across the table, then through the cards his hand. "We'll teach you how to manage that."  
Keith agreed.  
"Definitely. Ivan might be a touch rougher than most, and he's got a lot going on in that head of his right now. How much do you know about his background?"  
Malcolm felt something - the alcohol, or perhaps the question - hit his stomach in a cold rush.  
"I don't, um - "  
"It's OK." Keith smiled encouragingly. "Just basic stuff. Where'd he grow up?"  
Malcolm answered confidently.  
"Here. Well, around here - not far. His father lived out across the way about an hour and a half."  
Keith nodded.  
"Good, good. You've met his father?"  
Malcolm scoffed, took another long sip of his drink. It tasted sweet, but with a hint of bitterness beneath the surface.  
"Unfortunately."  
"Ah." Visor laid down a few cards. The game went on. "And what about his school, his job? Was he educated at home? Educated at all? Academy? Military? Private? Science? Law? What did Ivan do before he met you?"  
Malcolm blinked in the face of the barrage.  
"Uhh...."  
Keith and the visor looked expectantly at him. The other players in the card game looked up, too. Malcolm swallowed, suddenly nervous.  
"I don't, um - you know, I really don't know."

~:~

"Soo! This..." Charlie began, squeezing his way down into a spot between two carriers on one of the couches, "...is Ivan." Charlie made a grand, vague gesture with his hand. "He was in my class at the Brookhams Shenter." he slurred.

Ivan looked around at the others; half of them had happy, glazed looks on their faces. The floor was littered with discarded sweaters, half-drunk cups, stacks of playing cards, a few video cards, and an in-progress board game. The other carriers all smiled approvingly at Ivan. He looked around the circle, assessing. The group seemed to range in age - the oldest looked to be in his mid-forties, and was heavily pregnant. The youngest looked to be a blonde about 19. All of the carriers looked healthy, Ivan noted; no obvious bruising or evidence of abuse. No paleness, discoloration of eyes or fingernails, hair loss, or other evidence of malnutrition. No anxiety, nervous tics, or jumpiness. They looked fine; as carriers went, he might even say they looked _happy_.

Ivan thought this, then rescinded it; to be honest, he had not spent much time around happy carriers in his life, and was not entirely sure what the symptoms of such a condition would be. However, as best he could estimate, the group looked OK. They were a mixed bunch; some were tall, some short - some slim, some heavier in build. Some looked as if they'd come from lives of leisure - they were all soft hands and pleasant smiles. Others had the uncompromising look of former soldiers. One even had the wild, critical look of survivors from the fringes of society. They were of various colorations as well; a few blondes here and there, but several of the black hair and olive skin he'd come to associate with Westerners, and more than one had the duskier skin that hinted at some sort of mixed African descent. Some looked to be recently changed - one even still had the short, buzzed hair of a recent soldier. Others looked to have been living in this fashion for some time, and two of them had the long, well-cared for locks that Ivan tended to see only on changes for whom many years had passed. All of them, however, looked hale, hearty, and un-abused. Knowing this relaxed Ivan, but only slightly.

A sudden awareness interrupted his thinking, and Ivan snapped out of his thoughtful stupor to realize that they were all staring at him. Unconsciously, he began to rub the sides of his thumbs - being stared at reminded him of the cafeteria at the CEC, and still made him nervous.

Ivan stood awkwardly, uncertain of how to proceed and resenting Charlie for just taking a seat and abandoning him. Then one of the carriers scooted over to make a space on the floor, and Ivan quickly occupied it. This meant that he ended up sitting on the edge of an ornately patterned oriental rug, against the leg of a sturdy wooden chair occupied by the heavily pregnant carrier. Ivan glanced around the room. It looked spartan, but expensive - like a wealthy summer home forgotten for most of the year. It was lit brightly.

The olive-skinned brunette carrier to Charlie's left leaned forward from the couch and offered his hand, recapturing Ivan's attention.  
"Hi, Ivan. I'm Zeno. Where are you from?"  
Ivan almost balked at the hand, but compelled himself to take it.  
"Not far from here." he answered, shifting his eyes to the floor. One of the carriers who was sitting on the floor, poring over something inside of a hat, perked up.  
"Oh, you're a local?" he asked with interest. "I am, too. Well, sort of. My father was the doctor in Gatlinburg for fifteen years." The carrier frowned. "That was about thirty years ago, though. So I guess it doesn't mean much anymore, as quickly as things have been changing. Anyway, I'm Miller."

Ivan wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just nodded. Another carrier, this one an older blonde who looked to be of some mixed origin, smiled at him and leaned forward from his chair to shake hands.  
"Hey. I'm George. I was the new guy until you showed up." he grinned as he said this. "So thanks for that." he raised his glass slightly in a salute, winked at Ivan, and finished it. The other carriers laughed.  
Zeno rolled his eyes.  
"Oh, come on, Georgie, we weren't that bad."  
George gave Ivan an ironic but amused look.  
"Not after the first four times you got me punished, no. After that, you were fine."  
Charlie laughed from his sideways position against the cushions of the couch.  
"Discipline builds character."

Ivan narrowed his eyes.  
"So what do you all do, here, exactly?"  
Zeno made a half-shrug.  
"Well, some of us live here, in the Manor. That's me, and Charlie, and Chesney, too. And George. The rest try to meet up here at least once a month. Less often for those who live far away, more often for closer, but all of us see each other as often as we possibly can. We're a...tightly knit group."  
Ivan looked skeptically between each of the faces.  
"You all are....a family?" he hazarded.  
Charlie snorted and the others laughed.  
"More like very, very good friends." someone answered, and the entire group burst into laughter. Ivan felt his face heat, feeling on the outside of the joke and wondering if it was about him.

Suddenly, the carrier to Ivan's right, who was himself seated against the leg of one of the couches, leaned towards him in interest. Ivan leaned back reflexively.  
"How old are you?" the carrier demanded, the words slurring just slightly. Ivan stared at him.  
"Thirty-three." he answered, after a minute. The man frowned for a minute, still leaning close.  
"Good." he said, blinking heavy eyes at Ivan. "Good."

Ivan carefully inched away from the carrier. Unfortunately, this put him within touching range of another carrier; the bright-eyed, chestnut-haired one who was sitting on the floor to his left.  
"I'm Chesney." he said, proudly, squeezing a glass in his hands. Chesney looked a little younger than most, maybe only in his early twenties. "It's really nice to meet you, Ivan. I really think you're going to like it here."  
Ivan's blood ran cold. Like it here? So it wasn't just dinner. So Malcolm had lied to him. What was this, then? Fear nipped at him, but Ivan contained himself enough to respond to the carrier. He nodded, shortly.  
"Hi."  
Chesney's gaze drifted upwards a little, and suddenly, he put down his drink, braced himself with one hand, and leaned even closer to Ivan.  
"Your hair's so pretty! It's really dark. It's going to look really good when it grows out." he assured Ivan seriously.  
Ivan stared at him in bemusement, which quickly changed to mortification as Chesney reached out and began to play with Ivan's hair, twisting the ends of it in his fingers experimentally. Ivan felt every muscle in his body go rigid. This was not acceptable. Nothing about this was acceptable. Kosin felt the anger of a caged animal rose up inside of him. If he were still who he was, this carrier wouldn't dare... Ivan never finished that thought, because they were all interrupted by the arrival of one of the men.  
"Chesney!"  
At the sound of the scolding voice, the carrier dropped his hand from Ivan's head and spun around, eyes wide.  
"Yes, Stevie?"  
The man who had entered the room, an older gentleman of rather large build, crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, giving Chesney an admonishing look.  
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Ivan doesn't want to be touched? Or maybe that Malcolm doesn't want you to touch him?"  
Ivan felt his face color at the off-handed way the man had given authority to his husband. Chesney was busy looking abashed. He dropped his gaze to the floor, then looked up and blinked large, bright eyes up at the man.  
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to. I was just trying to be nice."

Chesney's voice had changed to affect an exaggerated lilt, and Ivan felt brief disgust run through him. It continued to amaze him - all carriers seemed to be in possession of an utter lack of subtlety. Doe eyes and a child's voice? Honestly. But the man scolding Chesney just shook his head, his arms still crossed over his chest, and smiled.  
"It's OK. I know you were just being friendly. Come here, sweetheart."  
Chesney jumped up, and, to Ivan's further disgust, practically scampered over to the man, standing up on his tiptoes for a kiss. They broke apart, and the man smiled down at the rest of the group.  
"Come on, boys. Dinner."

~:~

Ivan was very careful to stare into his plate at dinner so that no one would talk to him. He thought his ducked head and the frown of consternation on his face would prevent any conversation. He thought wrong.  
"So, Ivan! Tell us about yourself!"  
Ivan looked up. Oh, right. It was the jackass in the poker hat. Ivan looked back down and picked at his plate.  
"I was born. I grew up."  
The jackass grinned at this.  
"Sounds poetic. But tell us something we don't know."  
Ivan looked up to cut a glare at him, realized that most of the table was watching him, and looked back down. With his fork hand, he rubbed the side of his thumb, then immediately wished he hadn't because it mixed his carrots into his potatoes. Frustrated, he snapped at the man.  
"There's nothing you need to know about me that you haven't already figured out by inviting me here under false pretenses."

Chesney looked impressed by the alacrity of Ivan's sharp tongue. He exchanged a glance with Zeno. Next to Ivan, Malcolm was shaking his head.  
"Ivan, that's not - "  
Tom the mechanical engineer cleared his throat noisily. Malcolm looked up, and Keith met his eyes.  
"Correct." he said, simply. Malcolm nodded and put his fork down. He turned to Ivan.  
"Ivan. It's not appropriate to speak to our hosts that way."   
Ivan rolled his eyes.  
"I'm not obligated to be polite to meddlers and kidnappers."  
Malcolm kept his voice steady and repeated himself.  
"Ivan. I'm sure you know," he stressed, "That it's not appropriate to speak to our hosts that way."  
Ivan wanted to scream his frustration.  
"Well, I didn't _ask_ them to host me, did I? I didn't ask to come here tonight, Malcolm. I just wanted to stay home! So this is your party, and your ambush, and your friends and your fucking hosts - you make the fucking small talk."  
Keith made a short, raised chin motion to Malcolm.  
"Manage."  
Malcolm took a deep breath, and Ivan tensed for some kind of retaliation. Whatever was coming, he didn't care, so long as it got them home faster. Maybe if he acted an ass at dinner, they could just leave.  
"OK." Malcolm said.

That was all the warning Ivan got before he was pulled bodily from his chair, Malcolm's large hand tight around his arm. His first reaction was to fight, and he almost kicked over the chair he'd been sitting in before deciding that maybe destruction was not the best course of action. He tried to wrest his arm free, but Malcolm was surprisingly strong, and had moved them halfway out of the room by that point. Ivan swung out, trying injure, and heard a little sound of shock go up from the table. Great. Now he was a spectacle. Malcolm used his half second of distraction to get a better grip and twist his arm backwards. Ivan yelped a little, and Malcolm glanced back towards the table. Ivan glanced back, too, wanting to see what his husband was seeing, and caught a glimpse of Keith shaking his head. Then Malcolm dragged him out of the room.

In the hall, Ivan panicked.

"Where are you taking me?!"  
Malcolm didn't answer, and Ivan twisted his body to look up at his husband's face. Malcolm had the same stony look he'd had earlier. Ivan's nerves got a little jangly. Malcolm was still moving them down the hallway.  
"Where are we going?!"  
They had reached the front of the house again, and Malcolm took them through the main living area into a sunroom adjacent. The room had a good view through the living room into dining area. The meal was still going on - conversation seemed light and happy. It was as if Ivan hadn't been dragged out kicking just seconds before. In the sunroom, Malcolm released him.  
"Sit. We are going to eat out here."  
Ivan stared at him.  
"Why?"  
"Because you're tired. You've dealt with a lot of new people today, and you need a break from company. So we're going to have some quiet time."  
Ivan rubbed his arm where he'd been held.  
"Why?"  
Malcolm ignored this.  
"I'm going to go and get our plates. Make yourself comfortable."  
There were two short couches, and a low coffee table in between. Ivan picked the farthest seat he could manage and Malcolm went back into the other room.

It was awkward, eating out here like this. Everyone else seemed wrapped up in excitement at the table. Ivan wondered if they were talking about him. Malcolm and he weren't talking - they were just sitting across the table from each other, eating. Ivan prodded at his food with his fork. His meat was almost touching his carrots. He separated them, keeping each clean. Across from him, Malcolm was eating, slowly, and watching Ivan push his food around. When he had finished, he sat back on his couch and looked evenly at Ivan.  
"We don't leave until you finish your meal." Malcolm said, simply. 

Ivan felt anger and embarrassment rise up in him. He picked up his plate and turned it upside down on the table. Malcolm stared at him in shock for a minute, and Ivan felt gleeful that he'd won, however ephemerally. Then, seeming to collect himself, Malcolm calmly got up, left the room, and returned, carrying a fuller plate. He set it down in front of Ivan.  
"We don't leave until you finish your meal."

Conceding defeat, or at least growing bored with the game, Ivan ate.


	9. May [Week 4]

It was a long week for Ivan.

 _Monday_  
Ivan woke at 0600 hours to the sound of an alarm going off beside the bed. He bolted upright, startled into full wakefulness, and as his eyes adjusted, he could make out Malcolm emerging from the lit bathroom, his body silhouetted against the yellow-bulb light.

Malcolm stepped forward and shut off the alarm, then looked down at Ivan.  
"Morning." his voice was raspy.  
Ivan tensed, not yet understanding.  
"Morning."  
Malcolm stepped back, turning towards the mirror as he buttoned his shirt.  
"I leave for work at 7. Maybe we could have breakfast."

~

At breakfast, Malcolm spoke little, but wrote notes in neat script on a pad of paper.  
Ivan drank coffee and watched him. 

When it felt complete, Malcolm pushed the pad over towards Ivan.  
"I work a full day today; that's 7:30 to 4. I'll call at lunchtime. And I'll be home about half past 4." Malcolm indicated a note pasted to the side of the fridge. "You need me, you can always call the station."  
Ivan turned to look at the note, then looked back down at his dwindling coffee. Without the heat of the mug, his fingertips felt cold; he tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt to keep them warm.  
"OK."  
Malcolm pointed to the pad of paper.  
"Think you can get these things done for me by the time I get home? I wrote instructions for each of 'em, and everything you need should be in the house."  
Ivan looked cautiously down at the list.

_Schedule roofers, W - F next week. Call #D843G342.  
Collect laundry from hampers  & take to laundry room. Sort by color.  
Check leak in first floor rear bathroom sink. Toolbox is on shelf in laundry annex.  
Sort mail in office, 4 piles: Financial, Personal, Government, CEC. Please do not open.  
Remove expired food from icebox; take to compost bin (in front of garden house).  
Repair broken bench in laundry annex._

Ivan read it over, ashamed to look too eager. And yet...these were _tasks_. They were responsibilities, no matter how minor. They were something to _do_. Finally, he had something to do.  
Ivan scanned down the page.  
"What's wrong with the bench in the annex?"  
Malcolm chewed his toast and swallowed.  
"Broken brace. Plywood's there; just needs to be cut, sanded, and primed. I can stain it later, and attach it tomorrow."  
A maelstrom of emotions rose in Ivan, and he got very angry, very suddenly.  
"Not fixing a fucking bench." he snapped, crossing the room to stand by the sink, pretending to consider the dust on the windowsill. Malcolm blinked at him.  
"I'm sorry?"  
The carrier frowned, and picked at a chip in the paint.  
"I'm not fixing a stupid fucking bench. If you want new legs on it, you crawl down on the floor and do it."  
"It doesn't need legs, it needs - "  
"It's not my fucking problem!" Kosin slammed his mug down and stood on one bare foot, then the other. He glared at Malcolm in irritation. "Now I'm cold. I'm going back to fucking bed. It's too goddamn early."

~:~

_Tuesday_  
Ivan was woken at 6 by the alarm, and Malcolm stepped out of the bathroom, brushing his teeth.  
"Morning." he mumbled, then stuck his head back into the bathroom and spit. "Breakfast?"

That day, breakfast was silent and the list was different.

_Schedule roofers, W - F next week. #D843G342.  
Collect laundry from hampers  & take to laundry room. Sort by color.  
Put mail in office into 4 piles: Financial, Personal, Government, CEC. Please do not open.  
Organize spice cabinet._  


~

Ivan spent the better part of the morning sulking in bed. Inadvertently, he found himself in the office around 11 and decided he might as well call and schedule the roofers. He had no idea what might be wrong with the thing, but he had to live in this house, too, and there was no sense letting the sky fall in on him.

Ivan put his feet up on Malcolm's desk and dialed the number he'd been given. While it rang, he looked for a clear spot to rest his morning cocktail. There was none - the desk was covered with mail. Ivan finished the drink instead and picked up the first letter. CEC. He set it to the side.

By the time he'd finished speaking with the roofers, the mail was halfway done. Ivan hung up the phone and regarded the piles he'd made with a some sort of irritated satisfaction. Well, at least he'd gotten two things done. Malcolm couldn't say he wasn't trying.

In the trash under the desk, Ivan noticed the list from the day before. He took it out and smoothed it over. It had been a stupid list, but maybe he could get one extra thing done and then Malcolm wouldn't hassle him tomorrow.  
Abruptly, the phone rang. Ivan stared at it for a moment, then reluctantly answered.  
"Hello?"  
"It's lunchtime." Malcolm sounded harried.  
"Oh. OK."  
"Did you eat?"  
Ivan looked at the clock. He'd only been out of bed an hour and a half.  
"Not yet. I will." he added, trying to forestall an argument. On the other end of the line, he heard voices and movement in the background. Malcolm swore.  
"Listen, I've got to go. I'll be home soon."  
Ivan looked over the un-crumpled list on the desk in front of him.  
"OK. Well, goodbye."  
"Goodbye, sweetheart."

The endearment lingered in the air long after Malcolm's voice evaporated. Ivan put down the quiet phone and looked at his paper. Something eager and frightened and in a great deal of pain woke up inside of him and squealed for his attention. This made him fearful, and his fear made him angry. Fuck the list. Fuck Malcolm. Fuck fucking carriers, and fuck the Manor, and fuck Henrik Angstrom. Fuck the Phantom, and fuck roofers, and fuck, fuck, fuck this new fucking life. I just want my old life back, Ivan wanted to scream. I just want to be me again. I don't want to be afraid.

~:~

_Wednesday_  
On Wednesday, Ivan woke at 6 with less prompting and stumbled downstairs in his dark blue hoodie to make himself coffee and watch Malcolm make his own breakfast.

 _Collect laundry from hampers & take to laundry room. Sort by color.  
Check leak in first floor rear bathroom sink. Toolbox is on shelf in laundry annex.  
Peel potatoes and thaw meat for dinner.  
_  
Ivan read the list and shook his head.  
"I already fixed the sink. The plumber is coming next week, along with the roofers."  
Malcolm looked sideways at him.  
"So then you _didn't_ fix it."  
Ivan shrugged.  
"I fixed it with money."  
Malcolm laughed heartily, and Ivan's ears reddened.  
"Why is that funny?" he snapped.  
Malcolm shook his head, still chortling.  
"It's not - it's not you - " Ivan shoved his chair back from the table, scraping the floor, and stood as if to leave. Malcolm caught him by the forearm. "No, wait - wait." he got his laughter under control enough to speak. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you."  
Ivan's face still burned.  
"All I did was fix your fucking pipe."  
Malcolm nodded seriously.  
"I know you did. Thank you. Sit down."  


Ivan did, but he sat on the edge of his seat, making it clear he wanted nothing to do with breakfast or the table. After a minute of silence, he seemed to relax a little; he glanced back at the notepad.  
"So then I need something else."  
Malcolm looked up, slowly chewing.  
"OK. What do you need?"  
Ivan frowned and shook his head impatiently.  
"I don't know. I meant something else to do. On the list." he frowned again. "There's always four things, at least. So I need more."  


Malcolm's eyebrows shot upwards on his forehead and he leaned back a little in his chair, as if Ivan had said something utterly against the laws of nature. Ivan frowned, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  
"What?" he asked. "What is it?"  
Malcolm shook his head, let a little of his hair get into his face to disguise his eyes.  
"Nothing. Nothing." he reached forward and picked up the pen. "That's fine."

~:~

_Thursday_  
On Thursday, Ivan woke at 6 with only mild complaints, put on his hoodie, and came downstairs. Malcolm was already at the table, working on a list.

_Water houseplants.  
Strip bed linens and take to laundry room. Replace with new linens from hallway closet._

His hand hovered a minute over the page. He looked up at Ivan, who was staring out the window with determined disinterest.  
"Would you like to fix the bench today?" Malcolm asked, carefully. Ivan's mouth thinned and his jaw flexed.  
"No."  
"Would you like to call someone who could?" Malcolm asked, jokingly. Ivan's posture got more rigid and Malcolm regretted it immediately.  
"No."  
"Would you like to talk about why the bench makes you so angry?"  
Ivan shook his head.  
"I don't care about the bench. It's just a stupid bench with a broken leg."  
Malcolm stared at him.  
"Broken brace," he corrected, experimentally. Ivan's jaw flexed again.  
"That's what I said."  
Malcolm wisely didn't respond to this.

_Schedule house-sitter for weekend. If no answer, leave message. #G806D420  
Reorganize cabinets in kitchen.  
Dust the main wing._

~

Malcolm arrived at home at 4:30 and let himself in the front door. There was no sign of Ivan. He went into the study and found the mail in three neat piles. All of the CEC envelopes were in the trash. Malcolm retrieved them and began paging through. Footsteps alerted him to Ivan's presence. Malcolm didn't look up.  
"Hey. The house smells nice."  
Ivan shrugged.  
"Nice day. I opened some windows."  
"Want pizza for dinner?"  
Ivan shrugged, and Malcolm stopped at an interesting envelope and began to tear into it.  
"Well, we're going to have to make something easy. You and I have an afternoon project to work on."  
Ivan tensed immediately.  
"What is it?"  
Malcolm scanned over the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope, then gave his full attention to Ivan.  
"I am going to teach you how to fix a bench."

~:~

_Friday_  
Ivan and Malcolm both laid in bed until the alarm rang at 6. Over a hasty breakfast, Malcolm discussed a change in schedule.  
"I'll be home at 2 today. I'm taking a short day so we can leave for the Manor."  
Ivan stared at his coffee mug and pretended he hadn't heard. This did not go unnoticed by Malcolm.  
"Did you pack yet?" he asked.  
Ivan shrugged. Malcolm swallowed his irritation and broke off a piece of his toast.  
 _  
Call around to contractors and price installation of a driveway. Phonebook is in the top right drawer.  
Remove expired and soon-to-be expired food to compost bin.  
Pack bag for three (3) days at Manor._  


Ivan read the list upside-down. His body went a little rigid.  
"We're staying three days?"  
Malcolm finished his toast.  
"We'll come back Monday night."  
"Don't you have to work?"  
"I'll be taking a holiday."  
Ivan stared at the paper, then at his hands, tucked inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt.  
"I'm not going to the Manor." he blurted, suddenly. "Fuck that. You can't make me. No. I don't like it there. Those people are weird. No. Fuck you, I'm not going."

The thing inside of Ivan paced the floor. Tell him, it said, tell him what to do. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know anything. He'll get you both killed. He's so weak.  
Malcolm's voice hardened.  
"Ivan, watch your tone."  
The thing snarled and Ivan felt defensive suddenly.  
"Don't tell me what to do." he hissed, "I'm _not_ going!"  
"Ivan." the sternness in Malcolm's voice gave Kosin a moment of pause. Malcolm seized it. "I am your husband, and I am telling you - not asking." Malcolm gritted his teeth. "Pack your bags for the Manor."  
Ivan froze, uncertain. The Thing ceased its pacing and stared, silent. Ivan always found it unsettling when Malcolm acted like this - these flashes of command, this wholly unpredictable dominance. 

Malcolm squared his shoulders and set both feet on the ground as if he were preparing to rise.  
"I want you packed and ready when I get home. Is that understood?"  
The Thing growled, low in its throat. Ivan thought about how easy it would be to kill Malcolm. Their eyes met. Ivan held the stare until Malcolm's unfathomable black eyes began to frighten him. He looked away.  
"Fine."  
Malcolm stared at Ivan a moment more, then his eyes flicked down to the carrier's hands.  
"How's your splinter?"  
Ivan narrowed his eyes and stuck his hand inside of his sleeve.  
"Hurts." he said, frankly.  
They finished their breakfast in silence.

~

The ride to the Manor that afternoon seemed shorter than before. Ivan stared out of the window and counted trees as they passed. Malcolm turned on the temperamental radio and tuned it to a local news broadcast.

Zeno and Charlie and Keith Vance greeted them at the door.

"Ivan! Malcolm! Glad you could make it."  
Zeno and Charlie hovered behind Keith, waiting eagerly to be allowed to greet their guests. It was May, and the late afternoon sun was hot on him; Ivan was less interested in greetings and more interested in getting inside of a cool house. He shifted irritably on his feet.  
"So are you going to let us in or should we starve out here?" he demanded.  
Keith's eyes flicked over to Ivan, then to Malcolm. They had stayed there.  
"Sure. Sure. Come in."

They were given a partial tour of the house and grounds, Ivan pressing unconsciously closer to Malcolm as they went. During the tour, Keith Vance led them into a room that looked to Ivan like a grown-up version of kindergarten cubbies. Stone benches with locked metal drawers beneath them and overhead shelves lined either side of the narrow space. Stenciled along one wall were the names of all the carriers of the Manor. Along the other wall were the names of the men.  
"This is the fire room." Keith said, ushering them in. "It can act as a safe," he gestured to the heavy doors behind them, "And in case of an emergency, we keep copies of all our vital information here. Medical records, passports and identification, vital statistics, family contact information, et cetera. Really helps if someone gets stranded, has an emergency, or any kind of problem arises while they're here."  
"Like what kinds of problems?" Ivan blurted, suddenly nervous.  
"Allergic reactions." Keith answered, calmly.

~

In the evening, Keith came to recruit Malcolm for a men's meeting taking place in the cigar room. Malcolm trailed after him, following down the short stairs that led toward the basement space, and was unsurprised to find the others already gathered there. "Malcolm! So glad you could join us." Tom Gaspar made a sweeping gesture toward a semi-circle of leather chairs. "Please, sit."  
Malcolm chose the most distant chair and the rest of the group seated themselves. Tom Davies leaned forward in his chair to take notes on a clipboard he'd balanced on his knees.  
"Well, since we're all here, I'll get us started. Tell me about sex with Ivan, Malcolm."  
Malcolm shifted in his chair.  
"Ivan wasn't fully formed when I got him. I didn't - didn't want to take the chance of hurting him."  
Tom nodded, still writing.  
"And now?"  
Malcolm shrugged.  
"He says don't touch him, I don't touch him. What am I supposed to do?"  
Davies exchanged looks with Keith and Tom Gaspar.  
"Are you happy with that, Malcolm?"  
The many pairs of critical eyes were beginning to make him nervous. Malcolm crossed one ankle over his knee, then uncrossed it.  
"I'm not. But I'm working on it. Just takes time. He takes time."  
Tom Davies raised an eyebrow, but let the subject drop.  


Tom Gaspar cleared his throat suddenly, head still down as he pored over something on his own clipboard.  
"Tell us about house and home, Mal. Was this week better than last?"  
Malcolm nodded, relieved by the change in topic.  
"Yeah, um, introducing structure..." _Malcolm said these words as if they were foreign_ , "...I guess it really helped."  
Gaspar nodded, but made a gesture that encouraged Malcolm to elaborate.  
"Helped what?"  
"Helped him. To calm down. To do stuff. To not be so _angry_ all the time."  
Gaspar blinked at him through the thin black frames of his glasses.  
"I'm glad. So why do you think that is?" Malcolm was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and demonstrated as much with a shrug. Gaspar answered his own question. "Maybe because when you give a carrier structure, it helps him not to feel so afraid, right? Having some responsibilities feels _good_ , and knowing his role helps him feel safe. And as his husband, it's your job to provide that safety and that structure, right?"  
Malcolm blinked at Gaspar, then looked down at his lap.  
"I guess."  
Gaspar nodded understandingly.  
"I know this all seems strange, Malcolm, but that's just because it's new. It's new and it's maybe a little contrary to the way you've been taught to think about carriers."  
"I ain't really been taught to think much about carriers." Malcolm countered sullenly.  
Gaspar shook his head.  
"Sure you have. The messages you hear on the radio, the stories you hear from the guys in your training corps, the tacit assumptions inside all the etiquette and all the laws? All those teach you, they send you a message, and they _train_ you to consider carriers in a certain way."  
Malcolm thought this over in his mind, turned the concept back and forth. Perhaps Tom Gaspar had a point.  
"Well," he said, finally, "Even if I have been taught, I'm still not sure that - that -"  
"What's up, Malcolm? Tell us." Tom prodded.  
"That I need to be re-taught." Malcolm answered, finally. Tom Gaspar laughed.  
"Sure you do, Malcolm." he said, smiling. "Sure you do." he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "But that's my part. Keith? Got questions?"

Keith Vance narrowed his eyes at the well-scrutinized man before him.  
"Have you hit him?"  
The abrupt change of topic and tone startled Malcolm; he went rigid in his chair.  
"Hit him - _no,_ , man, no."  
Keith pursed his lips.  
"Have you _disciplined_ him?"  
Malcolm felt off-balance; he shook his head reflexively.  
"I haven't - haven't touched him."  
Keith shook his head as if he encountered this resistance every day.  
"You will. Or you should, at least. He needs it. Ivan has no idea where your boundaries lie. Show him, or he'll keep driving you crazy with his mood swings and ruining my perfectly good dinner parties with his temper tantrums."  
"I don't think - "  
Keith shook his head.  
"Do it. Does much more good than harm, Malcolm. That, I promise you."  
"I'm not sure - "  
Keith rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let him run wild. And what happens when it's not us he acts out in front of? What happens when it's someone a lot more concerned with keeping him in his place, and a lot less concerned with understanding his growing process? What happens when it's someone who can give him a _behavioral audit_?"  
Malcolm ground his jaw, suddenly annoyed with Keith's high-handedness.  
"I understand that Ivan's behavior needs to change. I just don't think beating him is the way to do it."  
Keith nodded, understandingly.  
"You're absolutely right. Don't beat him. Beating him gets you nowhere, and it's abusive. **Discipline** him. Set boundaries, and when he violates them, punish him. Make him respect your power. Carriers aren't like women; they don't know their place naturally. They _need_ to be taught."  
Malcolm furrowed his brow and stared at Keith, his face set in an expression of consternation.  
"I want him to respect me - not fear me."  
Keith Vance leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  
"Same. Damn. Thing."

~:~

_Saturday_

The therapist crossed one leg over the other and smiled at the man in front of him.  
"I can wait just as long as you can, Ivan."  
Ivan scowled, but didn't answer. The therapist stretched luxuriously, then leaned back his chair and set his feet up on the ottoman.  
"Comfortable seats."  
Ivan scowled some more.  
"This isn't the CEC. I have no other patients to see, there are no meetings in my afternoon queue, I get paid by the month, not by the hour, and I always take a late lunch. So..." the man said, smiling, "We can sit here as long as you like."

Ivan Kosin kept silent. Ivan hated therapists. He hated the idea of someone - a stranger - prying into the details of his private life. For what? False comfort? They couldn't comfort him. They couldn't help him. The past was the past, and dredging it all up served no purpose but self-injury. So what good was a therapist? To talk up memories that were never going to change, never going to disappear, that were so much a part of his mind's landscape that he could not envision the shape of his thoughts without them?

Ivan shifted in his seat. He had intentionally, he now realized, been given an uncomfortable chair. For that, the therapist got an extra scowl. The man smiled serenely back.  
"Take your time."

Was this man making fun of him? Ivan ground his jaw. He never would have had to put up with this if he were still an Investigator. He never would have been woken up at the crack of dawn, taken to a breakfast he didn't want to go to, made to eat eggs because apparently King Keith Vance didn't believe in carriers skipping meals, and then dropped off at the door of some half-assed psychology session like some kind of government-owned street kid.  
Ivan scowled more.

Malcolm had told him the schedule that morning, and Ivan knew he had 4 hours of free time, post-therapy, to do as he pleased; Malcolm would be in session for a while, and the others were busy with their own schedules for the day. Ivan could have time to himself.  
But that was only as long as therapy didn't take too long.

Ivan thought of what he could do with four undisturbed hours. Write. Watch a movie. Drink. Sleep.  
Ivan shifted a look over to the therapist, who was calmly drawing a picture of a giraffe on the back of Ivan's session sheet.  
"OK. Fine. I'll talk."  
the therapist smiled and flipped the sheet over.  
"Excellent. Let's start."

~

Three hours later, Ivan walked shakily out of the therapist's office and into a house in chaos. Today was Tom Gaspar's 40th birthday, and his carrier wife, Miller, was going insane with preparations for a birthday dinner in his honor. Ivan found himself swept along with the rest of the carriers and assigned a preparation duty. Ivan volunteered for cleaning; he'd gotten kitchen instead.

So now he found himself standing in the kitchen with five other carriers, carefully stirring an enormous pot of pasta sauce - how many people were coming? he wondered - while plates clinked in the dining room, music flowed from the cigar den, and Miller Gaspar ran back and forth agitatedly supervising all of it. Near the bank of ovens, a heated argument broke out over the condition of a pastry; most of the kitchen stopped to intervene or gawk, but Ivan barely looked up. He had no interest in becoming involved in petty carrier fights; his life was too removed and today he felt too disquieted for that. Instead, Ivan focused on his pot, trying to remember to stir the sides and bottom every so often to keep the sauce from sticking. He had never successfully made an sauce in his life, and had raised this point to Miller and the others, but they had all been busy with decorations and arguing, and so Ivan had just been talked over and finally Zeno had shrugged and told him that he didn't really have to _make_ it; he just had to heat it up.

So now Ivan stood in front of the pot, ignoring everyone else and thinking over his therapy session again and again. It had been...difficult. Talking had never come easily to Ivan, but after 45 minutes of silent sulking, he'd been willing to say anything just to make the discomfort end. And so he had acquiesced, and the therapist had seized the moment.  
The first questions had been direct, easy to answer. How old are you? Are you in good health? How many years did you live at home? Where did you go to Academy? Simple questions with simple answers. Ivan liked those. He didn't like the others so much.  
What are you afraid of? How do you feel about Malcolm? What do you think about when you are alone? What do you think Malcolm wants from you?  
Those questions were not so simple or easy to answer, but the therapist had persisted. Ivan had answered all of them, eventually. Stilted, halting, awkward answers, but answers nonetheless and the man had seemed satisfied.  
Ivan had not been satisfied.  
Nothing had been settled - nothing was resolved. Ivan had complained about that, and the therapist had just laughed and told him that it was a therapy session, not a debriefing. Things would resolve themselves eventually, with work, and in time.  
Then the man had stood up, stretched, and bid Ivan goodbye until tomorrow. Ivan had left, sworn up a storm under his breath, and then proceeded to feel disturbed for the rest of the day.

Because, to Ivan's thinking, that was the shitty thing about therapy - it was **disturbing**. It unsettled things. It startled and woke up and shook things that had long since drifted down into the seabed. It tickled the bellies of wolves and pulled on the tails of dragons. It insisted on agitating beasts that Ivan had worked long and hard to put to bed, and could not - now, or at any other point in his life - afford to have awakened. But awake they were, awake and living now. Memories flowed through him; his father, the visitors, the hands on him, the fear, the embarrassment, the denial, the Academy, his superiors, his equals, the isolation, the wildness, the disdain, the ignorance, the broken jaw, the first position, the last, the money, the pain, the implements and weapons, the euphemisms for torture, the heartbreak, Henrik, the CEC, the wedding, the ocean, the cold, and at last, Malcolm, sleeping in the dark in his grey t-shirt with his black eyes closed. Ivan's heart ached with the fullness of remembering these things, all at once.

"What the **fuck** are you doing, Ivan?!"

Ivan Kosin was jolted back into reality with a shout and a shove. Miller, his front covered in some kind of flour and chocolate sauce all over his hands, was grasping desperately at the knobs to the range. The smell of burning and the embarrassment hit Ivan both at once, and he stepped back to give Miller more room to maneuver. Ivan had known this was going to happen. It always happened, no matter what. Failure was inevitable. Miller finally succeeded in moving the pot to a cooler place, casting death glares at Ivan all the way.  
" _Shit_! I'm sorry, I just - "  
Miller cut him off viciously, his eyes glittering with anger.  
"Are you a fucking idiot?! It's a simple fucking sauce on a simple fucking stove!" Miller slapped the metal counter beside the range. The sound splintered and bounced around the room, creating weird echoes. "I said turn it to warm, **not** hot, and WATCH THE GODDAMN POT!!"

Ivan glanced around; the room, as he'd expected, was enthralled by the scene he and Miller were presenting. Everyone was staring. Ivan felt his face get hot.  
"I said I was sorry. I told you I wasn't good with this. I can't -"  
Miller sputtered in exasperation and threw his hands up in the air.  
"Wah wah! I can't do it! I'm Ivan! I can't stir a SIMPLE FUCKING SAUCE for fifteen minutes! I can't be bothered to be a fucking help to anybody since I've gotten here because I think I'm so special that my fucking life transition is harder than everybody else's! Oh, _fuck you_."  
Ivan took a step back, his anger awakening and surprising him with its voracity. He quieted it and put it to bed. Enough demons were alive for now.  
"I SAID," he repeated, his voice darkening, "That I was fucking sorry."  
Miller made a face of disgust and scoffed.  
"Get over yourself, princess."  
Something older than the anger inside of Ivan narrowed its eyes, and before it could be silenced, snapped,  
"Watch your mouth, hole."

The room silenced completely, causing Ivan to belatedly remember where he stood and who he was. A beat passed, and Ivan's chest heaved between the effort of not saying more and not begging to take back what he hadn't really meant in the first place. Had he?

Ivan shut his eyes, hoping childishly that if he focused elsewhere, the whole incident would simply disappear. Then Miller laughed - a harsh, mocking laugh, and Ivan was sure it never would. Miller crossed his arms across his chest, and Ivan noticed the wiry forearms, the legacy of hard pre-carrier work.  
"Wow," Miller said, barely suppressing his triumph, "Temper tantrums, violence, _and_ gender slurs? I can tell you're going to make a lot of friends around here, Ivie."  
Ivan glanced once around the room, turned, red-faced, and fled.

~

He sat down on the back steps, wanting to cry and run and fight at the same time. Distantly, he was aware of being followed - after a few minutes, the awareness solidified into a pair of legs that appeared in his peripheral vision. Ivan lifted his head slightly from where he had buried it in his arms. The legs moved, collapsing into the full form of George, the blonde carrier who Ivan remembered from his first Manor dinner.  
George sat down on the stoop beside Ivan, bringing his knees up to his chest.  
"Hey."  
Ivan didn't answer - his throat still felt too swollen and his voice was too thick. George didn't seem to mind; he simply stretched his legs, wiped his hands on his apron, retrieved a lighter and a small tin from his pocket, and began rolling himself a cigarette.  
After a few puffs, he looked over at Ivan.  
"So. That sucked, huh?"  
Ivan's heart ached again. George's cigarette smelled sour. He shrugged. George nodded and turned his attention to the horizon that Ivan was intently studying. Ivan's voice croaked when he answered.  
"Yeah. That sucked."

George nodded again, slowly, as if Ivan had said something profound.  
"Well," he said between puffs, "It's baptism by fire. And besides, Miller _does_ act like a little carrier bitch sometimes."  
Ivan glanced at George; mirth was in his expression, and but Ivan found it difficult to offer even half a smile in return. George took another series of puffs and blew them out slowly. "But he's nice, you know? He's just being a bastard today." Ivan tried to believe this. George turned slightly to look at him then, the gray of his eyes catching in the afternoon light. "It's the stupid Tom's dinner thing. But we're all bastards sometimes, right?"

Ivan shrugged.

More long moments passed. George rolled himself another cigarette. Eventually, he spoke again.  
"So I'm George."  
Ivan blinked at him.  
"I know."  
George nodded again, put the little tin back in his pocket.  
Almost ten minutes passed.  
"So who are you?"  
Ivan looked over at him again, a little surprised.  
"I'm Ivan."  
George blew smoke out, trying as he did so to make a little "O" shape with his mouth.  
"I know. But who are you really? Who were you before you came here, I mean?" he looked directly at Ivan as he said this, and Ivan had the disconcerting feeling that George already knew. The two men stared at each other for a while. George spoke first, studying a crack in the brick steps that appeared between his feet.  
"I just had some shit CEC job. You know. Before."  
Ivan felt an uncomfortable tightness begin in the pit of his stomach. He hoped George wouldn't ask him about his job. He didn't want to talk about his job. But it was obvious, wasn't it? After what he'd said today?

George stretched out a leg and kicked a small stone into the grass. Ivan could hear the waiting in his voice, and decided to move in first.  
"What did you do?"  
George found another pebble and toed it along.  
"Officially? My title was Relief Counselor." Ivan frowned; the designation wasn't a familiar one to him. George waited a few seconds. "Unofficially, I was a funboy."  
This took Ivan by such surprise that he was unable to conceal his reaction - for half a second, he gawked at George; his eyes flicked over the man's body, then to his face. George noticed this and laughed, lifting his cigarette to his lips again.  
"Yep. That's the same way your type always looks at me."  
Ivan frowned apprehensively.  
"My type?"  
George nodded, exhaled.  
"The type who did for free what I did on salary."  
Ivan's heart stopped.  
"I never - "  
"Sorry, sorry." George shook his head. "Not for free. For - let's see, what is it that your sort always say? 'I had to do it.' 'I _needed_ that promotion.' 'I _needed_ that assignment.' 'I can't just go back home.' 'I've got to make rank or my father will never forgive me.' 'He's my CO - I can't just tell him to fuck off.' And of course, my personal favorite: 'Well, that's just how you play the game.'"

Ivan felt a surging of that surreal dizziness that tended to accompany these little moments of discovery. George was looking at him now, his eyes shining with triumph and a gentle kindness and also something that looked suspiciously like pity.  
"You didn't have to, you know. Do any of it." Ivan felt sick. George pressed him again, leaning forward on one elbow, crumbling the edge of the brick beneath his sleeve. "You're smart enough. You're capable enough. You could have gotten the promotions anyway."

Ivan shook his head - not to deny the words, but the situation. He had wanted to protest that George was wrong about him, but he had been too stunned at first, and now it would be too late.  
"I didn't - "  
George just shook his head, leaning back on his elbows so that the sunlight caught on his skin.  
"Yes, you did."  
They both stared at the horizon for another long minute until Ivan realized he was crying. George noticed, glancing sidelong at him, but ultimately decided to ignore it and let Ivan have what was left of his dignity. At the end of his second cigarette, he spoke again.  
"Is that the worst thing you ever did?"  
Ivan shook his head.  
"No." George looked over in interest, and Ivan felt victory for a minute - Ha! he wanted to say. Here is something that none of you know. Here is a part of me that is still mine. "I tortured people."  
George nodded.  
"Oh."  
The reaction was not enough for Ivan. He felt compelled to add,  
"I tortured carriers."  
George nodded, again. It seemed to be his default response.  
"Oh."  
Ivan looked over; the blonde man's face was pinched in consternation. Over what, Ivan wasn't sure, but felt a little of the burn of embarrassment again. George tilted his head.  
"I was assigned to a unit in California. I had... 200, 250 men in my unit? I worked on 35 of them. And contractors, on occasion, like if there was some special project going on. That was how I met Tom. He was working on the Kiji Bridge construction; the engineering team was staying at the base. They were working day and night and came out so rarely that people were starting to say the Kiji Bridge was just a legend. But they were supposed to be part of our unit, full benefits and everything. You know."

George paused, closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sunlight.

"So one night Tom had some kind of episode in the workroom. A stress thing. The counselor recommended he see me once a week. He didn't want to at first, I think, but then he came that first night and he saw me and I guess..." George trailed off for a minute, then swallowed. "He kept coming back. Again and again and again and it was - at first it was nothing. Nothing special. Lots of guys like to fuck, and they like it easy, so they come. No big deal. But I liked Tom - he was nice, and not a fucking cunt like most of them were." George opened his eyes and frowned at Ivan. "Honestly, you fucking file papers for people all day and suck their dicks at night and you'd think it would get you a little respect. But it's the opposite. People hate what they need, I think. It makes them weak." George scoffed. "And man, did they really hate me."

Ivan met George's eyes and they shared a moment of rare communion. The story went on.  
"Anyway. Tom kept coming. And he was nice. He was so nice. And it stopped being about sex - I think that stopped after the second or third time." George grinned. "With him, I felt like - like he respected me, like he saw me as a person and not just a thing - not just a funboy. I felt like a human. I felt like I was me again. I felt like I was somebody."

George picked up a piece of the aging brick pathway and crumbled it between his fingers.

"When I changed, I felt like I was dying. It wasn't just the physical pain, although that sucked. It was the pain in my head - the mental fuck. It was the fact that I knew I couldn't get out. That I knew those very same motherfuckers - the ones who wouldn't speak to me in the hall, who ignored me when I said to stop, who fucking laughed at me like I was a goddamn joke - those same fuckers would want me now. Want to hold my hand and walk me up to their fucking fathers and smile about how cute I was and then beat me when nobody was looking. Man, that felt sick. And I was scared. I was scared as hell and I didn't - I didn't have much faith in anybody at the time, honestly. God or man. I remember sitting in my room with an ice pack on my nuts, trying to figure out how long I could take appointments before I had to stop. But then it just hit me. It was like everything came together at once - I just knew, I _knew_ that the only way I could have an even slightly un-fucked up life from there on out would be with Tom. Not just because he was in love with me, but because he was an un-fucked up person. Sure, he can be temperamental, and kind of controlling, and a little condescending sometimes when he's in that I-Know-Everything mood, but generally, he's an un-fucked up person. In fact, he's a really good person."  
George looked up at Ivan.  
"So I can trust him not to hurt me."  
Ivan blinked at George for a minute. Unbidden, a question rose up in his mind and asked itself.  
"Do you love him?"  
George smiled so wistfully that had Ivan's heart been capable, it would have ached even more.  
"Madly." the older man admitted. "So madly it hurts."


	10. June

Ivan and Malcolm arrived at the Manor on Friday of the following week, just in time to miss dinner. They unpacked hastily before sharing some leftovers in the kitchen, and afterwards, Malcolm went off to play some game or the other with the men while Ivan went to seek out George.

The carrier found his friend in one of the smaller upstairs multipurpose rooms, curled up on the sofa under a thin blanket, watching some kind of media chip. Recognizing Ivan's silhouette in the doorway, George looked up from the video and smiled.  
"Well, hey, you. Welcome back."  
Ivan stood awkwardly, then waved, uncertain of whether he was being welcomed in or not. George moved his sweater and patted the empty space it left on the sofa.  
"Sit. Movie's on."  
Ivan found a place next to George and looked up at the screen.  
"Why are you watching a film for children?"  
George grinned.  
"It's a classic film, and one of the few remaining from its era. _The Dark Crystal_." he looked over at Ivan. "You've never heard of it?"  
Ivan shrugged. George turned back to the screen.  
"I used to watch this with my boys. All the time. They loved it." he looked nostalgic for just a minute, then it faded. "They're both in academy now."  
Ivan tilted his head curiously.  
"I didn't know you had children."  
George looked over at Ivan with an expression of disbelief.  
"Ivan, I'm a carrier. We _all_ have children."  
Ivan flushed and tried to change the topic.  
"Right. Well, how old are they?"  
George turned back to the movie.  
"Seven and ten. Nick is seven and Tom III - we call him Trip - is ten."  
Ivan raised both eyebrows.  
"How long have you and Tom been married?"  
"Ten years." George grinned wryly. "He wasted no time. We had Trip the same year I got changed and we got married."  


Ivan was quiet after that, and George left him alone, waiting for his thoughtfulness to pass into conversation. After a brief silence, George spoke again.  
"So what about you and Malcolm?"  
Ivan looked up in honest confusion.  
"We don't have any kids."  
George laughed, but it was one of his gentle laughs - not the mean, mocking kind that Ivan was used to.  
"I know that, Ivan. I was asking whether you're going to have them now or wait a little longer."  
Ivan shook his head, his face getting hot.  
"No, um, not now. Not yet."  
George frowned at Ivan, and Ivan tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, putting his full effort into watching the video screen. George squinted at him, then shook his head and rolled his eyes.  
"Oh _hell_ , you're still a virgin."  
Ivan snorted.  
"I haven't been a virgin since I was nine."  
George drew up short, and Ivan realized that he'd said more than he meant to.  
"I didn't mean - " he glanced up at George, expecting to see pity or worry in his face. There was nothing - just acceptance. Ivan felt compelled to explain anyway. "I didn't mean that."  
George nodded.  
"OK." he said, but meaning: _We can pretend_. George looked back toward the movie screen. "What I mean is that you haven't fucked Malcolm since you've changed."  
"No, not yet." Ivan answered automatically, distracted with the relief of moving on from the previous, uncomfortable topic. George grinned an amused grin, and Ivan belatedly realized that he hadn't meant to say this, either. "We're going to, though." he amended.  
George laughed.  
"I bet you are. Geez, how long have you two been dancing around each other? You got married, what, three months ago? Poor Malcolm. Poor _you_!" he sighed theatrically.  
Ivan shrugged nonchalantly, but George saw him start to rub the side of his thumb - an expression of anxiety. He peered at Ivan, then said, slowly and carefully:  
"It won't be like the other times."  
Ivan's stomach sank. How could George read him so easily? How could this man know what was in his head better than Ivan himself could? It was frightening.  
"You don't know that." Ivan answered, in a very small voice.  
George shook his head.  
"Yes, I do." he said, forcefully. "Malcolm cares. The others didn't."  
Pangs of agony rose up in Ivan's heart. First, he thought of his father, then of home, then of the forst and being nine years old again. Then he refused to think about anything else.  
"Yeah," he said, finally, to fill the silence, "I guess so."

~:~

"So what about tonight?" George pestered, carrying a stack of books over to their shared workspace on the ladder. "Tonight's a nice night for a deflowering. Crescent moon, fireflies -- summer's a pretty season." Ivan sighed and went back to re-ordering the books on his shelf.  
"I'm sure it's a fine night." he answered, after struggling with a response for a few seconds. "But I don't think it'll be tonight."  
George mulled this over, placing two books in incorrect places on the shelf as he did so. Ivan pulled a face of annoyance and corrected them. George didn't seem to notice.  
"Tom and I had sex last night." he said, conversationally. "It was fantastic. Really just the best. Exactly what I needed."  
Ivan rolled his eyes. Ever since his confession to George a week before, the man had made it his personal mission to see Ivan bed down with his husband.  
"Great. Good for you. Good for Tom."  
George grinned, and a few minutes of quiet re-ordering and alphabetizing passed between them. As they came to the K's, George paused and glanced over at Ivan.  
"You know...you can mess around with me sometimes, if you want."  
Ivan froze, and all the instantaneous questions that sprung up in his mind congealed into one single, articulate "Huh?"  
George shrugged.  
"Tom wouldn't mind."  
There was an edge of something in George's voice that made Ivan feel strange suddenly, aware of the situation and what he was being asked.  
"I don't - I - "  
George glanced over at him again.  
"No pressure, Ivie. It was just an invitation." George smiled, stuck another book out of place and grinned up at Ivan. "At the Manor, carriers get to share."  
Ivan's eyebrows both shot up into his hairline and George laughed.

~:~

Ivan slowly climbed the stairs to he and Malcolm's bedroom in the Manor. He was sweaty, hot, and worn out from he and George's workout. His bed and shower beckoned him. Malcolm had given him a massage a few days before (the therapist and Tom Davies were encouraging them to increase their non-sexual physical contact), and it had been good enough that Ivan was considering asking for another, whenever his husband resurfaced. Keith and Tom Gaspar were off working on some project in the south wing of the Manor, and Ivan guessed that Malcolm was probably with them.

The carrier made it up the stairs and down the hallway to their door - without pause, he opened it, and was startled to find his husband already inside. He was even more startled to find him lying on their bed with his jeans open and his dick in his hand.

Surprise crossed into embarrassment, then annoyance when he realized that Malcolm wasn't even going to stop; he just continued jerking himself off as if Ivan weren't even there. Annoyance bled into curiosity, crossed with a vague sense of voyeuristic temptation as Ivan's own body began to take interest in the scene before him. Frustrated, Ivan decided to stem this tide before it overflowed.  
" _Hey_!"  
Malcolm groaned, obviously not inclined to acknowledge a harping carrier when he was just moments from his release. Ivan's ears burned.  
" **Malcolm**!"  
Malcolm sighed a long-suffering sigh and looked over at his carrier wife.  
"Ivan."  
Having Malcolm's attention on him suddenly felt uncomfortable; Ivan crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away.  
"Can you - fuck, I mean, I live here. Do you mind?" Malcolm looked his carrier over, his gaze lingering on Ivan's thighs where sweat made his shorts stick to his body. Ivan took a step backwards. "Oh, come on. Have some respect."  
Malcolm raised an eyebrow and his voice dropped.  
"Come here."  
Ivan looked at his husband, then, thinking better of it, looked away. Malcolm propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head.  
"No. You look at me."  
Ivan peeked anxiously at Malcolm from the corner of one eye, his stance still guarded. Malcolm blinked at him. "Come here."  
The command in his voice was compelling, and Ivan took two halting steps towards the bed before stopping. Malcolm accepted this, and looked up at his wife from the bed, his cock throbbing in his fist.  
"Listen, we've talked about this."  
"About you jerking off in our bed?" Ivan scoffed.  
Malcolm shook his head, ignoring the attempt to distract through indignation.  
"No. About us. About our sexuality. About our relationship."  
Ivan ground his jaw, and Malcolm patted the space on the bed beside him.  
"Come here. Lie down."  
Ivan's eyes widened.  
"I don't - "  
"It wasn't a question, Ivan."

Slowly, Ivan took one step more towards the bed. Malcolm's expression didn't change - he kept his voice firm and steady, and his face unreadable. When Ivan finally touched the bed, tentatively, then more firmly as he rested his weight on it, Malcolm smiled a little at him.  
"Very good, Ivan."  
The carrier fidgeted with the sheets for a minute, then released them and leaned forward, then moved back.  
"Sorry, I don't - um. I, um - " he stopped, frustrated with his own lack of articulation, and exhaled. Malcolm didn't attempt to guess what Ivan was asking; he simply waited to be told. Eventually, the carrier collected himself, took a deep breath, and looked up at his husband through lidded eyes. "Can I...?"

Malcolm nodded, and gestured widely to his heavy cock, which was by now half-flaccid and bobbing against his jeans, trailing sticky lines of precum along its edge. Ivan swallowed, sucked in a breath to gather his courage, and reminded himself that carrier or no carrier, there were some things he'd done a thousand times before. With that thought in mind, he dove down and swallowed Malcolm's cock in a movement so quick it made the other man gasp and clench his fists to keep from cumming.

Ivan shifted his weight, resettling between Malcolm's spread thighs and dipping his head down to get more of Malcolm's length inside his mouth. It had been a long time since he'd done this, but some skills never faded. Ivan took another breath and opened his throat, gulping down as much of Malcolm's thick cock as he was able. Malcolm yelped an ecstatic yelp and entwined his hands into Ivan's dark hair, twisting it at the ends and forcing the carrier's head forward. Ivan almost choked, but didn't complain, using all his power to suck the hard, fat cock in his mouth as far into his throat as he could.

Before either of them really knew it was happening, Malcolm was climaxing, his cock pulsing thick, viscous streams of white cum down Ivan's throat and into his mouth. Surprised, but not unprepared, Ivan sucked it all down, even as his husband's hand tightened painfully in his hair.

Malcolm groaned again and fell back, his head cushioned in the pillows of their bed, his skin still buzzing with the afterglow of orgasm.  
"Ivan," he said, lazily, his voice not quite itself again, "Ivan, come here."  
Cautiously, Kosin let himself down beside his husband, self-consciously touching the back of his hand to his mouth.  
"Ivan." Malcolm murmured contentedly, lacing his fingers gently through the carrier's hair, "My beautiful Ivan. I love you."  
Ivan quirked his mouth into something that could have almost been close to a smile and settled in, as comfortably as he could in such close proximity to his husband.  
"Thank you." he said, quietly.  
"You want one?" Malcolm asked, and Ivan glanced down at his crotch, where he was awake in his own right, and shook his head.  
"No, I - maybe later, OK?"  
Malcolm nodded and pulled him close to kiss his forehead.  
"OK. Later, then."  
Ivan nodded against his husband's chest.  
"Later."

~:~

Malcolm had his usual weekly men's meeting, and they opened on the same topics as ever. Tom Davies went first.

"So! How's the sex?"  
Malcolm grinned impishly.  
"Made some progress."  
Tom raised an eyebrow and laughed.  
"Oh? Well, that's good, Malcolm! Really good. Now, you've been making sure to maintain the non-sexual touch, correct? Don't think that just because he's warmed up to you the other stuff gets to stop. He needs assurance now, more than ever. Understood?"  
Malcolm gave him a mock salute.  
"Aye aye, cap'n."  
Tom raised an eyebrow.  
"I'm serious, Mal."  
Malcolm exhaled.  
"OK. Got it. Be nice, keep touching. I'm on it."  
"But don't allow the escalation to diminish either. Don't let him backslide."  
"I won't."  
"Alright. Who else?"

Tom Gaspar looked down at his notes, then up at the man of interest.  
"How's the structure?"  
Malcolm looked a little caught out.  
"Right - the structure."  
Tom frowned.  
"Maintaining the structure is crucial, Malcolm. Don't go off schedule, don't change your consequences, and don't start letting him get away with things just because now he fondles your balls. It's still a fragile time for Ivan, and if you start caving to him, he's going to think you're weak. If you're weak, you can't do your job. And if you can't do it, then he has to. You want your carrier to feel like he's got to pick up the slack because you're not man enough to do it?"  
Malcolm's expression turned sullen.  
"I haven't forgotten." he protested, "And I haven't been letting him get away with anything. He's just been good lately."

Keith Vance cocked his head.  
"Oh, really? Because I could have sworn I heard you remind him that it was time to go to bed at ten o'clock last night and he told you 'In a minute.' Didn't head up to meet you 'til half past 11. What'd you do about that, Malcolm?"  
Mal's face reddened.  
"He was watching some movie with George. I didn't think it was worth arguing over." he answered.  
Keith shook his head.  
"You're right - it's not worth arguing over. That's why you don't argue. You present the command, and you present the consequences - no arguments necessary. Arguments are tough! They're painful! They're an emotional drain on an already fragile human being, and should be avoided whenever possible."

Tom Gaspar took over again.  
"Malcolm, work on the structure, and work on the firmness. Don't just do the fun part, the sex and the playing around. Marriage is not all about the fun part. Ivan's going to be getting a little more rebellious as he gets more comfortable here; he's going to be testing boundaries to make sure they're still there. If you let him push too much, you're both going to backslide. Understand?"  
Malcolm sighed.  
"Understand."

Everyone turned to Keith, who lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.  
"You already know what I'm going to tell you. If it'd been Charlie who hadn't come upstairs when I told him to - not _asked_ , but _told_ , mind you - he wouldn't be sitting for a week. Discipline your carrier now, so someone else won't have to later."  
Keith shook his head, and his voice had some distress in it.  
"It's becoming irresponsible, Malcolm. And if there's one thing that always turns out poorly for a carrier, it's being ruled by an irresponsible man."

~:~

Malcolm had taken to jacking him off in the mornings now, before they both got up to make coffee and oatmeal and assign tasks for the day. Malcolm had begun gently, just soft tugs of Ivan's cock and a slide of fingers, pre-lubricated, along the exterior of Ivan's entrance. Then he had become more insistent - slipping the tip of one finger in, then the entirety of it and Ivan had jumped, but not resisted. Ivan balked at two fingers, however.

"No...Malcolm, just one." he was mumbling, his voice muted by sleep and frustrated arousal. Malcolm raised an eyebrow and continued along his path. Ivan tried to wriggle away from him, but got a dark look and a warning hand that tightened on his hip. He tried closing his legs, but Malcolm held them fiercely apart.  
"Stop fighting. Just relax."  
Ivan whined a little, but acquiesced, and only made a slight noise of complaint when both fingers entered him, slid into his wet, slippery depths and stroked him gently from the inside out. After a few minutes, Malcolm paused, his own cock straining against his sweatpants. He kissed Ivan's bare belly gently.  
"Are you close?"  
Ivan, seeing his out, nodded fiercely.  
"Yes...so close."  
Malcolm grinned and plunged his fingers in deeper, making Ivan lift his hips in response. The carrier arched his back a little, breath quickening.  
"Fuck...yes, Malcolm, that's good, right there, perfect, that's good, it's there, oh, fuck, ohhh yes, Mal..."  
Malcolm stopped suddenly. Ivan stopped, too, then propped up on his elbows.  
"What's wrong?" he asked, breathless. Malcolm looked squarely at him.  
"I was waiting for your performance to end. Should I applaud?"  
Heat rushed to Ivan's face.  
"It's not my fault you don't know what you're doing." he snapped.  
Malcolm narrowed his eyes.  
"You speak to me out of turn like that again, and I **will** punish you, Ivan."

Ivan was taken aback by both the viciousness of Malcolm's tone and the intensity of his body's own response. Malcolm looked down, confused, at where his hand joined them.  
"You're...spasming."  
Ivan tensed and tried to pull away immediately, but Malcolm's other hand held him fast. Ivan shook his head, panic seeping into his voice.  
"Stop! You're hurting me."  
Malcolm looked skeptically at his spouse.  
"Am I?" he drawled.  
Ivan nodded desperately, and Malcolm pressed a thumb deeply into the junction of one hip.  
"Maybe I want to hurt you."  
Ivan went rigid, but inside of him, he felt a rush of wetness and knew he'd been found out.  
"Mal - "  
Malcolm's forehead creased in sudden, certain understanding.  
"Is this what you want, Ivan? Is this what you wanted all along?"  
Ivan shook his head.  
"Mal, please - "  
Malcolm plunged his fingers in deeply, withdrawing a short cry from Ivan. His voice was throaty, and what he spoke was almost a whisper against Ivan's skin.  
"Did you want this? Did you want me to hurt you?"

Unexpectedly, tears began to seep across Ivan's cheeks, frightening them both. Malcolm yanked his hands away in horror and pulled back.  
"Ivan! Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, sweetheart, I just - "  
"No!" Ivan flailed out desperately for his husband, found his arm, and clung to it. "No, please." After a hiccuping moment, he gathered himself back together. Eventually, his voice was normal enough to speak again. "I don't...want you to hurt me. But I need you to make me think you might."

~:~

Malcolm looked, desperately, up at the four men before him.  
"I don't understand. And I don't know what to do."  
Keith Vance's expression was unusually tense. But his voice was as firm as ever.  
"Malcolm." he said, calmly. "He finally broke for you. Don't agonize over it. Don't overthink it. Just give the boy what he wants."

~:~

After dinner, some of the carriers put a movie on in the video room and invited Ivan to watch. George would not be attending, however, and so Ivan was more grateful than annoyed when Malcolm gently refused the invitation for him.

"Sorry, Zeno, but Ivan won't be able to watch a movie tonight." Malcolm had said smoothly. "He and I have a prior engagement." he winked, and the carriers all laughed and teased Ivan until he snapped at them and left the table. Malcolm had caught his wrist as he'd been storming off.  
"I want us to try something," he said, low, as he looked Ivan in the eyes. "Tonight."  
The pulse under the skin of the wrist that Malcolm held began to race. Malcolm glanced down to it, that point where the two of them connected. He released Ivan's wrist.  
"Go upstairs and bathe. I'll be up in a bit. Be ready for me."

~

Ivan opened his eyes slowly. Where was he? In his bed? He must have dozed off. What time was it? What had woken him? Two soft steps, and the his husband's toes came into view at the side of the bed, two distinct forms in the dark. Ivan looked up. Malcolm was only partly illuminated by the still-steamy light filtering out from the bathroom. Must not have been sleep long then. Ivan was still damp, still wrapped in a towel where he'd curled up on the bed. Malcolm stood still, watching him. Ivan ran a hand over his hair, squeezed out some of the cooled-off water. Didn't look at Malcolm.  
His husband spoke quietly into the room.  
"If we're going to do this..." he hesitated. "I want you to be safe."  
Ivan nodded.  
"OK."  
"Your stopword is your old name. Kosin."  
Ivan shook his head.  
"I won't - " Malcolm stared down at him, the gaze imperceptible in the darkness. Ivan twisted the end of a wet chunk of hair and tried to keep the trembling out of his voice. "I won't need you to stop. I need - " Ivan cut himself off. Even knowing it, he couldn't bring himself to say it. Saying it made it real. Made him weak.

Malcolm waited. At the Manor, Ivan realized, they had taught him to wait. Make the carrier uncomfortable. He will speak. Malcolm waited.  
"I need you to make it - " Ivan looked away and swallowed, tasting the humiliation in his mouth, but also the anticipation, the delight, the secret thrill and fear and relief to just be saying it, at last. "I need you to _frighten_ me."  
In the shadows, Malcolm nodded.  
"I know." he said, and his voice was so thick with sympathy that it made Ivan ache, "I will."

Ivan hesitated, flicking the edge of his towel, staring at the space between Malcolm's booted feet on the wood floor, wondering when it would start, and then there it was - the jolt of movement and the snap of pain and Malcolm was above him, had his hand tight in Ivan's hair and his neck twisted back, dragging the carrier down towards the bed. His towel was getting pushed around, too, shoved in wrinkles up against his stomach; Ivan felt the cold rush of exposure immediately and tried to move a hand to pull a sheet, the towel, something over to cover himself. Malcolm caught it and pulled it up, above his head.  
"Don't you fucking dare."

Malcolm met his eyes, and they were lucid eyes - clear thinking, not dark with rage or sex or wanting possession. Ivan stared at them. They didn't change, and he relaxed then, let the fear seep out of him. It was still Malcolm. It was only Malcolm. Just a show he was putting on.

Malcolm's gaze shifted; his focus was on trying to wrest his cock free of his pants. Ivan saw his opportunity in the distraction and twisted free, then bolted. He got as far as the opposite edge of the bed and then Malcolm was on him again, possessing of a swiftness and weight that Ivan had not seen evidence of before. Malcolm flipped him over; his breath was coming in heaves and his zipper was half-undone. He growled at Ivan.  
"Do. Not. Fight me."  
Ivan shook his head and tried to push Malcolm back, tried to twist away again. Malcolm snatched hold of his wrist and then gave him a vicious yank that pulled him back to the center of the mattress.  
Ivan felt his heart pounding. Go, run, get away. Flee. Run. No fight, flight.  
He tried to make it to all fours. Malcolm covered Ivan's body with his own, got his hand in the carrier's hair again and twisted his head back. Against the side of Ivan's neck, Malcolm's breath was hot; his words were obscured. Ivan had to listen close to make out what he was saying.  
"...because I am gonna fuck you, little carrier. Fuck you so hard you're going to beg for me, going to need me. I'll make you feel me. Make you fucking remember me."  
Ivan felt his voice catch in his throat and leave him unable to respond. Malcolm laughed.  
"Are you scared, Ivie? You scared of me? Little Ivan?"  
Ivan was surprised to recognize that a part of him was scared; scared of the power, of the anticipation, of the arousal, the pure, unceasing want that had almost drowned him. Doubt rose: what if this wasn't just a game? What if it couldn't be stopped?

The thought startled him and Ivan struggled anew, twisting and pulling, swinging at his husband to try and get free. Malcolm just gritted his teeth and rode it all out, let Ivan tire himself to gasping and tightened his grip then, twisting Ivan's left arm and shaking the carrier by his hair like a cat killing prey.  
"Do. Not. Fight Me."

Ivan stilled for just half a second, but it was long enough for Malcolm to flatten his carrier's body underneath his own, force one knee between Ivan's thighs and hold him still with an arm across the back of his neck. He swore when Ivan got a decent flail in and almost hit him in the chest.  
"Hold still! _Hold still_ , you stupid bitch!"  
"Stop!"  
Ivan started to feel panic, choked by his husband's weight. Behind him, Malcolm had gotten his cock out and was stroking it. He shifted, spread his weight more evenly, took hold of his carrier's hair again. Ivan's eyes watered.  
"Stop, you son of a bitch, stop it! Malcolm!" he sucked in another breath, but it was weak, making him tire and stars dance in front of his eyes. "Please. Stop?"

Malcolm shook his head, half-dragged Ivan to turn him over, onto his back. In the darkness, Ivan thought he caught a glimpse of something in Malcolm's eyes - something inhuman. It disappeared.  
"Oh, no. I've been waiting for this too long, Ivie." Malcolm tilted his head to an almost unnatural angle and blinked his black eyes down at Ivan. "Waiting for you." he paused. "You fucking tease." Malcolm's fist grew tighter, more furious around his cock. "Cocktease little bitch. You fucking scared of me?"  
Ivan kept silent, his breath too ragged to speak. He shook his head instead. Malcolm laughed again, the roughness of it surprising Ivan.  
"Well, you should be."  
Malcolm leaned down, his cock lining up to Ivan's entrance, where he was already wet and hungry, anticipating the penetration.  
"I should've done this a long time ago." he growled, looking darkly into Ivan's eyes. "Should've had what's mine."

Malcolm drove into him then, pausing momentarily to ease the penetration, but doing nothing to assuage Ivan's sudden fearfulness or soothe the build of tension in the straining muscles.

Ivan cried out, a sincere expression of the surprise, of the fear and the pain and the boiling well of need that seemed only to be growing deeper with every inch of Malcolm's cock he got inside of him. He felt impossibly full, but Malcolm pressed in deeper, going to the hilt and Ivan felt an ache far inside of himself. The feeling spurred him, pushed him closer to the abyss.

Everything hurt. It burned where Malcolm's penetration had been quick, and where he had thrust in so deeply, mercilessly. It hurt so perfectly and so poignantly that Ivan wanted to cry and cum and scream for joy all at the same time. It hurt intensely, and it soothed intensely. It was too much - he needed to stop. Losing control. Ivan pushed at his husband's chest.  
"Ah! Fuck, oh, Mal - Malcolm, wait - "  
"I'm not. Done. Yet." Malcolm growled, although the viciousness had drained out of his voice and been replaced with something more like impatience. Mal withdrew then, dove back in, began thrusting wildly. Malcolm was so solid, so hard thrusting into him that Ivan feared briefly he might shatter into pieces at his husband's hands. But it was all so perfect - so magnificently satisfying and frightening and ugly and fireburnt and hateful that it was just perfect.

Ivan was coasting higher now, towards a break in the clouds, towards the brink of salvation. Malcolm's thrusts became frenzied, the pants around his thighs chafing Ivan's skin.  
Ivan tried to respond, to flinch or move away, but he was floating too high. Every thrust was heaven for him; in every injury, love.  
Abruptly, Malcolm tightened all his muscles, arched his back so that he was sheathed fully into Ivan, and came.  
The rush of wet heat inside of him pushed Ivan just over the edge, too, and he felt himself tumbling down, falling from the sky with the rushing wind in his ears and the clouds all around him. He stopped in mid-air, floating, at peace.

Relieved.

When he came back to himself, Malcolm was naked and they had both been moved under the blankets. Ivan turned to look at his husband, feeling unsure of himself suddenly. He felt exposed. Malcolm knew. Malcolm knew everything.

Malcolm lifted his head and looked down at Kosin. His expression was pensive.  
"Get a cloth." he said, suddenly. "With warm water." he lifted the sheet and indicated himself. "Clean us up."  
Ivan got up, grateful for the simple order; a distraction. He went into the bathroom and retrieved the cloth, ran the water to warm and dipped it in. He came back to the bed, and Malcolm lifted the blankets, welcoming him back home.

~:~

A cool draft from the left and the smell of impending rain woke Ivan the next morning. Wriggling deeper beneath the blankets, he squeezed his eyes shut against the cold and dim morning light. The whims of summer escaped him; it had been hot last night - almost too hot, and the bed had felt overly warm with two bodies nestled inside. Now the breeze that reached him was cool, blown in off of the distant bay, and Ivan reached out to Malcolm, hoping to regain some of their shared warmth. His advances met bare sheets and nothingness - Malcolm was gone.

Ivan sat straight up in bed. The room was as it had appeared the night before - everything was in place, there was no note, no evidence of disappearance, nothing to indicate that anything was different than it had been the day before, but Ivan found himself unable to shake the sudden fear that overtook him. If he had been abandoned again...his heart pounded with the enormity of it. If he had no husband, then he belonged to no one. They would send him back to his father.

Ivan's throat burned with bile, but he swallowed it away and turned his mind from that train of thought. But long minutes passed, and yet Malcolm did not return. Eventually, Ivan got out of bed to close the window and listen at the door for footsteps. None came, and, feeling foolish, he got angrily back into bed. So what if Malcolm had left him? He didn't care - he didn't need Malcolm to be there when he woke up. He wasn't a child. So what if Malcolm had left? Fuck him, then. Fuck him and fuck Henrik and fuck Tómas and fuck everyone else who had ever left him. He didn't need any of them.

Abruptly, the door opened and Ivan, who had been lost in a muddle of his own thoughts, started and nearly fell off the bed. Malcolm looked warily down at him as he picked himself up from the floor.  
"Are you OK?" he asked immediately, then, seeing Ivan's face: "What happened?"  
Ivan scrambled to his feet, emotions a torrent of relief and embarrassment and fear and anger.  
"Nothing _happened_!" he snapped, then before he could stop himself, "You left."  
Malcolm's entire countenance shifted, and he set down what he had been holding (a tray, recognizable from the kitchen collection), and held both hands out to Ivan.  
"I'm sorry."

Whatever Ivan had inside of him that had made him so afraid was settled now, stupid thing that it was - Malcolm was back and that was all that mattered, so the terror curled itself into a corner of his mind and licked its teeth. Anger stepped up to fill its void.

"You should be!" he retaliated.  
Malcolm observed him cautiously.  
"OK. Why?"  
This struck Ivan as being both ridiculous and offensive.  
"Why?!" Ivan, snapped, suddenly feeling uncertain. "It's a fucked up thing to do, that's all. Especially - " he hesitated, uncomfortable even referencing the previous night, "Especially sometimes."  
Malcolm regarded him evenly, still holding his hands out.  
"OK. Can you come here?"  
Ivan shook his head.  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"Because I don't like you."  
Malcolm suppressed a smile for Ivan's sake.  
"That's fine. Can you come here anyway?"

Ivan glared daggers at him, but obeyed - albeit slowly. When he was close enough to reach, Malcolm pulled him into an embrace and spoke against his ear.  
"Did you really think I'd left you?"  
Ivan refused to hug him back, and stood with his arms folded across his chest and Malcolm's arms squishing him.  
"Well, you were gone, so I wasn't wrong, was I?" he snarled against a gray shoulder, but the venom was muted by the fact that he was being squeezed so tightly.  
"But why would I do that?"  
Ivan refused to answer that.  
"Well, I didn't leave you." Malcolm leaned back and tried to get Ivan to meet his eyes, but the carrier was hip to the game and refused. Malcolm furrowed his brow and peered at his carrier's face as if he were trying to look into his past.  
"What are you afraid of, Ivan?" he asked, as gently as he could.  
Predictably, this aroused Ivan's ire.  
"Fuck. Off."

Malcolm sighed and reflected quietly on the fact that in all his years as an MP, he hadn't been told to fuck off half as often as since he'd married Ivan.  
"Ivan, that's not an acceptable way to speak to me."  
This really lit a fire, and now Ivan was fighting him to get free of his arms, his voice close to a hiss.  
"...let me go, dammit....don't fucking need this....not a goddamned invalid!"  
Malcolm calmly turned him loose. Ivan retreated to the opposite side of the room and glared at him from the safety of a patch of sunlight.

Malcolm turned and sat down on the edge of their bed, stretching his legs out in front of him.  
"Come on, Ivan. Come over here."  
Ivan shook his head.  
"No."  
Malcolm raised an eyebrow.  
"Well, you've gotta come talk to me about it. You can't just run off. You need to tell me what's wrong."  
"I don't need to do anything for you." the carrier responded acidly.  
Malcolm's easygoing smile faded and his voice sobered.  
"Ivan, come sit down. I won't tell you again."  
Malcolm looked serious, and Ivan felt an urge to obey, followed speedily by a burning urge to spite his husband.  
" _Fuck you_ , Malcolm."  
Malcolm blinked at him for a few long seconds.  
"OK." he said, simply, and then got up and began to head towards the door.

Ivan, without thinking, demanded,  
"And just where the **fuck** do you think you're going now?"  
Malcolm didn't answer right away - he just went to the door, clicked the lock quietly, and turned back to face Ivan.  
"On your belly. On the bed."  
Suddenly, the room seemed significantly smaller. Ivan took a half step back, then caught himself and stood firm.  
"No." he answered, but the answer had more caution in it than his previous declarations had, and he knew Malcolm could hear that - could sense the weakness, see the flagging tail.

Malcolm didn't even blink, just repeated himself in the same voice and same tone.  
"On your belly. On the bed." Ivan hesitated, felt angry, felt worried, felt anxiety nipping at all his exposed ankles and wrists and vulnerable places and took an abortive step forward. Malcolm waited. "If I have to put you on the bed," he said, eventually, "It's going to be much worse."

Ivan stiffened. Not since he was a child had Ivan ever been threatened with an actual physical punishment. People did it, sure, to their carriers, to children in school...but those were other people, unreal people, distant facts and not real, up close, go-get-on-the-bed things that actually happened. And certainly not to him. He had been an officer, for fuck's sake.

Malcolm had begun to move forward now, towards him, and Ivan panicked and stepped backwards.  
"I'm going!" he snapped hurriedly, trying to buy himself time. Malcolm shook his head, and those black eyes were inscrutable.  
"Too late."

Malcolm crossed the room in strides, those long legs looking suddenly more powerful as he approached Ivan. Ivan remembered this moment - the instant in which the carrier realizes he is trapped, that they are too close and the door is too far and he couldn't move fast enough and he might as well just give up anyway. In the past, this moment had delighted him, had thrilled him as a victory; things looked different from the other side.

Malcolm gripped him by the arm - not angrily, but firmly enough to make clear his control. He led a halting Ivan over to the edge of the bed.  
"Hands in front of you on the bed. Bend and hold it."  
"You said on my belly." Ivan corrected, fidgeting in Malcolm's grip.  
Once again, those dark eyes turned on him and they were stormy and unreadable and Ivan wasn't sure what to think.  
"I'll go on my belly." he offered, trying to make concession sound as dignified as possible.  
"Too. Late." Malcolm repeated, only now his voice had this tone in it that Ivan found particularly alarming. "You're stalling and you're disobedient. Laying down is for carriers who cooperate. You stand." Malcolm let go of his arm, and Ivan flinched at the loss. "Go."

Getting himself into position took every ounce of self-discipline that Ivan had. His mind revolted, but Ivan controlled it. This was not the first time, after all, that he had faced the unpleasant inevitable, and he knew he could rely on his own automation, if nothing else, to sustain him.  
Just shut it out, he told himself. Whatever he does to you can't be that bad. Just do what he says and shut it all out. Everything has a beginning and an end. Just let it happen, and it'll all be over soon.

This filling his head, Ivan bent emotionlessly over the bed, settling himself in a position he expected Malcolm would like, and waited for the first blow to come.  
And waited.  
And waited.  
Eventually, he looked back over his shoulder.

Malcolm was sitting in a chair directly behind him, watching and apparently waiting himself.  
"What - what are you waiting for?" he asked, his voice tight. Malcolm glanced at his watch.  
"For your time-out to be over."

All the blood in his body rushed to Ivan's face, his shoulders tensed, and his hands knotted in the sheets.  
"My what?"  
Malcolm blinked at him.  
"I'm waiting," he repeated, more clearly, "For your time-out to be over."  
Ivan saw red and had sudden visions of incredible violence.  
"Time out?! I'm in a **time out**? I thought you were going to beat me, you sick son of a bitch, and instead, you put me in a fucking time out?!"  
Realizing belatedly that he was still in position, Ivan whipped around to face his husband, his hands in fists.  
Malcolm saw this, and his expression darkened.  
"Get back into position. I've told you before that you don't speak to me like that. Ten more minutes."

Ivan's eyes narrowed and Malcolm stood, walked over to him, and in one smooth movement, jerked Ivan's shorts down to his ankles, folded one of his arms behind his back, and forced the carrier down onto the bed.  
"Back. Into. Position."

It wasn't clear to Ivan what made him stay in place that time, but he adjusted himself on the bed and resumed his former stance. His mind was racing. How could Malcolm do this to him? Treat him this way? Was he trying to humiliate him? Was this some sort of a thing for him - some kind of a pleasure? Was that what Malcolm was thinking of, standing behind him like this, while Ivan had his legs spread and back bared?

Ivan wanted to glance back over his shoulder, wanted to seek out the emotion in those murky eyes, to understand what went on in that head, but he was too afraid of extending his sentence to dare.  
As if reading his mind, Malcolm spoke up, his tone casual.  
"You move and we get to do this downstairs in the living room."  
Ivan tensed up, then got very, very still.

The actual punishment time was surprisingly brief, and when it was done, Malcolm called time and let him stand again.  
Ivan stretched and wiggled his fingers to get the sand out of them, then pulled up his shorts and turned to face his husband. Malcolm looked over at him with an open, calm, and slightly hopeful face.  
"Feel better now?"  
Ivan just shrugged, but even that response was orders of magnitude above 'fuck you', so Malcolm accepted it as an answer.  
"Well, I'd like to talk to you, whenever you're ready. About last night. About this morning."  
Ivan glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.  
"OK."  
"Would you like to talk to me?"

Ivan thought of shrugging, but made the extra effort to nod instead. Malcolm smiled broadly, his first since he'd entered the room. He stepped back and gestured to the tray he'd brought in almost an hour ago.  
"Well. It'll be cold, but maybe we can talk over breakfast."  
Ivan nodded again and then glanced around. Malcolm pointed vaguely as he lifted the tray.  
"I know you don't like eggs, but Keith insisted. I hope the French toast makes up for it."  
Ivan wrinkled his nose in distaste, but complied, and Malcolm joined him on the bed.

~:~

"So? How the hell was it?" George demanded, bouncing Max, Miller's youngest son, on his knee. "I haven't seen you in days; I feel like I'm behind on news!"  
Max cooed and tried to grasp a hold of the spoon George was feeding him with. When he was unsuccessful, he reached out and tipped the bowl of oatmeal sideways instead. George caught it skillfully and returned it to the table.

Across the table, Ivan looked on in mild consternation, then focused on his coffee cup. He had made the coffee this morning - part of the chores he'd been assigned now that he and Malcolm were beginning to stay at the Manor for longer stretches of time.  
"It was OK." Ivan glanced at the red-cheeked toddler. "Should we be talking about this in front of him?"  
George waved a dismissive hand.  
"He's not even two yet! He doesn't know what sex is. It's fine." Ivan raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't challenge. George eyed him carefully. "So spill - how was it? Terrible? OK? Short and sweet?" George paused, grinning. "Long and nasty?"  
Ivan shrugged, uncertainly.  
"It was fine."  
George stared at him.  
"Fine? Fine? Ivan, I honestly don't know why I bother sometimes."  
Ivan grinned and went to refill his mug at the coffeepot.  
"OK, sorry. It was...great? Perfect. Exactly what I needed. But it was weird. It's complicated. I don't know how to put it." he turned back to face George. "Is that better?"  
Max got a hold of the spoon and started banging it against the table. Ivan glanced at George, who seemed oblivious to the racket until Max tried to put the wrong end of the spoon into his mouth, at which point he seamlessly removed it and replaced it with a brightly colored teething ring.  
"It was weird?" he asked Ivan, prompting him to speak again.  
Ivan shrugged again and stirred some milk into the hot coffee as he walked back over to take his place at the table again.  
"I mean, I told him - " he hesitated, still wary of being too open, "I told him what I wanted, and he - he did it, but I don't know if..."  
George tilted his head.  
"If he thinks differently of you now?"  
Ivan stilled, feeling caught out by George's uncanny ability to read him.  
"Yes." he said, eventually. Then: "I'm weird."  
George scoffed, but when he looked at Ivan, it was with those big, senselessly kind, understanding eyes. George always understood.  
"We're all weird, Ivan." he said, gently. "It's just a matter of how."  
Ivan exhaled, splitting the steam that rose up from his coffee mug.  
"But I don't…I don't want him to think that…that I'm - "

There was something in Ivan's voice that made it clear things were different for him. There was some tone; some curious, childish unease and it made George understand. Looking at Ivan, his face melted with sympathy and empathy and love and he shifted Max farther back on his lap so that he could reach across the table to Ivan.  
"You don't want him to think you're broken."  
Even George's bluntness was gentle, and Ivan nodded with relief at having someone else voice what he had been fearing.  
"I don't want him to know how fucked up I am."  
"Listen to me, Ivan." George said, firmly. "No matter what happened to you or what you did in your past, you are not fucked up. You may have done some fucked-up things, or had some fucked-up things done to you, but that doesn't change the heart of you. You are not fucked up. You are fine."

Ivan shook his head, and he seemed to be staring at something buried deeply in the table or the ceramic of his mug.  
"I'm not fine, George, I'm not, and - it's not just him, it's everything, it's - I don't belong here, and he knows it, and I - it would." Ivan took two deep breaths and closed his eyes for a second. "I'm not...a good person, George. I'm not good at all. I'm not normal. I hurt people. I hurt a lot of people, and I can't ever fix it, I can't fix anything..." he said, voice weakening and fading out towards the end.  
George shook his head slowly.  
"Ivan," he began, in that calm, positive voice that always seemed to soothe wounds, "Yes, you can. I know that you hurt people." George told him, "But that doesn't mean you ever have to do it again." he waited a moment, just letting that sink in for Ivan.

"Besides," he said, smiling a little, "You haven't hurt me."  
But I will. Ivan wanted to say. I will because I have to. I don't know any other way.  
"And even if you did," George continued, "It wouldn't make you some kind of freak. The only thing it would make you is a mean son of a bitch."  
Ivan shook his head in miserable disbelief.  
"No, it's not - I mean, I hurt people, George. I really, really hurt people. If you knew what I did...what I am..."  
Max dropped his teething ring on the floor with a noise of surprise and George smoothly reached out to capture a soft toy and replace it. Then he rolled his eyes at Ivan.

"'What you are?' Anyone can hurt somebody, Ivan. You think that makes you special? It doesn't. You're not darker or more tortured or worse than any of the rest of us. You're just human, and human means that we have the power to hurt other people." George's eyebrows were knitted together in passionate concern, "But it never, ever means that you have to."  
There was some silence where the only break was the soft, wet mashing sound of cloth from Max's toy.

Ivan toyed with the cold remains of his coffee, unsure why he felt so injured, so attacked, so unsettled - over what? George pushed fruit salad around on his plate and didn't eat it and wondered why it was that he always seemed to be the therapist for someone else. Max munched on his toy and didn't wonder about much else.  
Eventually, George spoke again.  
"And just so you know...there's nothing wrong with you, Ivan. And I don't know who told you there was, or who convinced you you were destined to be fucked up, or made you think you were some kind of monster, but...they lied." he looked up at Ivan for confirmation, wanting to meet his eyes. "OK? They lied. And they're gone now. And you are going to be fine."

Ivan looked up at George with eyes so goddamn grateful it just about broke the older carrier's heart. He jiggled Max in his lap for distraction and exhaled slowly.  
"Well. If we're done with the heavy shit now," he said, giving a teasing grin to Ivan and a little wiggle of his eyebrows, "Maybe you could tell me how big Malcolm's dick is?"


	11. July [Week 2]

In reflection, Ivan had to admit that things were getting better at the Manor. He and Malcolm had settled themselves there, shaping their lives into a more even pattern and abandoning the ragged adaptations they'd had before. They spent long stretches of time in the Manor now, returning to the family home for short trips - overnight patrols, early morning visits to the clinic. 

In fact, Ivan had come to prefer the Manor to Malcolm's family house in the woods. The old wood frame home, standing in solitude against the trees emptied him, somehow, he found. It was particularly awful to be there alone, while Malcolm went off to work or war or whatever it was the men at the station were playing at. Alone inside the family house, Ivan jumped at every sound - the telephone was a threatening madman who knew he was alone; the wind against the windows was a backwoodsman, hungry for blood; or his father, trying drunkenly to get in. These possibilities all terrified Ivan equally. And so during those silent, creeping times - when the phone didn't ring and the door never opened and only the tinny sounds of the wind and rabbits outside gave any relief, Ivan really missed the Manor. Their strange, acquired home in the big brick building felt more real, more alive - there were always things going on, and action, and community that Ivan was a part of, even if only tangentially.

He even had friends at the Manor now, a point of reluctant pride for Ivan. There was George, naturally, but now he also had Zeno, who was working on raising herbs with him in the greenhouse, and Charlie, who wasn't awful, as it turned out, and Chesney, who was kind of sweet in a young, naive way (and also was teaching Ivan how to cook). The accounting of all of this meant, of course, that Ivan now officially had more friends than he had ever had in his life.

At that thought, he hesitated a little bit - could he truly call them friends? George was his, certainly, and he trusted him as much as Ivan Kosin was capable of trusting anybody. But the rest? Perhaps their kindnesses were just natural civility, or borne out of the catalyst of common interest? Maybe their friendships were just passing, fleeting affections, or - worse - demanded from them by their husbands. This wounded Ivan to imagine, and so he tried to put that thought away, willfully. Malcolm had taught him to do this. 

"These fears you have, Ivan - of other people? They only have power," Mal had told him one night before bed, "If you let them. It's just fear. It's nothing real."

~

"I'm selling the house." Malcolm announced, over breakfast, one Wednesday when they had stayed overnight in the family home because of an extraordinarily late shift. He didn't look at Ivan. "Giving it over to my cousin. He'll take good care of it."

Ivan dipped his spoon into his carrier-vitamin-enriched oatmeal (the only way Malcolm could get him to _take_ the damn vitamins) and watched his husband across the table. Malcolm looked unaffected, but Ivan felt confident that his husband was aching inside. People often hid their love for the things that were being taken from them - this, Ivan Kosin knew.

"Is that…is that ok?" Ivan probed, eventually. George had taught him to do this, he considered. George had helped him to learn this new skill of kindness. Malcolm shrugged. Now Ivan knew for sure.  
"Do you want - "  
Malcolm leaned down the corner of the paper and looked at his carrier through hard eyes.  
"I'll be fine." he said. "It'll be fine." he leaned back in his chair. 

Ivan stirred his cooling oatmeal and studied his husband.  
"So where are we going to live?" he asked, sort-of-knowing the answer.  
"The Manor." Malcolm shook out hte paper and folded it, smoothing it down on the table between them. "Better food. Better living. Better for our family."  
Ivan's heart leapt into his throat.  
"We're a family?" he'd meant to make that a statement, but at the end, his heart had failed him and it had come out a question instead (an uncertainty). Ivan put the spoon down beside his oatmeal, feeling full. Malcolm, looking tenderly at his carrier and knowing - just understanding with those black, black eyes in that mysterious way that Malcolm had - reached out to take Ivan's hand.  
"Of course we're a family."

Ivan blinked fawnishly, as if he were having some difficulty understanding his surroundings, and then found some work for himself in cleaning off the edge of his spoon. Malcolm looked at him, fondly, for a moment, then pushed his plate away.  
"Finish your oatmeal. Then come upstairs with me for a minute."   
"Um." Ivan started, standing up from the table and reaching over to take his husband's abandoned plate. This was both to stall and because he had learned habits here at the Manor - little tics of behavior that were oft unbreakable without his conscious thought. "What for?" he asked, quietly.  
Malcolm gave a half-smile, a tease of a grin.  
"Come upstairs and you'll see." he answered, and bumped Ivan's leg gently with his own. Ivan flushed more deeply and got up to take the dishes to the sink.  
"I can't right now." he mumbled, from the safety of washing dishes. This was the other thing he hated about Malcolm's house. The isolation put his husband's attention fully on him. "I have chores to do."  
Malcolm laughed and crossed the room casually, reinserting himself into Ivan's space.  
"You can do them later."

Ivan hesitated, weighing the cost of resistance in his mind. 

In the month since they had begun living near-continuously at the Manor, Malcolm had become more demanding - of Ivan's time, attention, affection, and his body. The requirements his husband placed on him had grown more strenuous, and in addition, Malcolm had become a strict, by-the-book Manor man. Behavior that had once merited at least two warnings and some capitulation now earned immediate punishment.

Ivan had learned of Malcolm's growth the hard way - he'd refused to eat and instantaneously found himself being dragged bodily up the stairs and confined to the bedroom for the rest of the day. Then he'd learned the _really_ hard way when he'd arrived home one afternoon and, irritated by a slow performance on the track, had slammed the bathroom door in Malcolm's face. The door had been summarily removed from its hinges and he'd had no privacy for the rest of the week. 

Malcolm had, through these gestures and a few others, made it clear that Ivan's introductory period was over.

This lesson duly learned, Ivan felt torn between anxiously wanting to please Malcolm and desperately wanting to rebel. The boundaries were in sight, but staying inside of them felt against his nature. And despite the rather creative nature of Malcolm's responses to his previous offenses, the man still hadn't struck him yet. Although Malcolm had certainly made clear that corporal punishment was not outside the realm of possibility, he had taken no further action on the matter. This spurred Ivan on for some reason; although he didn't want to be struck, he felt that at least if it _happened_ , and he faced it and found he could live with it and understand it, then the whole thing would be over.   
It would be a fear that only had teeth in the dark.

"No." he said, suddenly. "I said I have chores to do."


	12. July [Week 3]

Two days and five similar infractions later, Ivan and Malcolm were back at the Manor, and Ivan was recounting the weekend for George over breakfast. Charlie Vance, who had joined them, listened attentively and with open appall. 

"Jesus!" he said, after the part where Ivan had dumped Malcolm's glass of vodka in his plate. "He's going to _lose it_ , Ivan. You know that, right? You have to know that. He may not have beaten you yet for all this, but he will. You can't just act that way and get away with it."  
Ivan hesitated and glanced at George, who rolled his eyes over little Max's head.  
"George?"  
George sighed.  
"For fu -" George stopped himself and glanced skeptically at Max, "For heaven's sake, Ivan, you know you can't act like that."  
Annoyed, Ivan crossed his arms over his chest.  
"I wasn't _acting_. He'd genuinely irritated me."   
George stared at his friend as if trying to decide whether to laugh or slap him.  
"Fine. But you know you can't react like that - and particularly not to your _husband_."

Ivan felt that little punch again, like he always did when he was abruptly reminded of the fact that he was owned.

"Whatever," he snapped, because weakness was abominable to him and he felt very vulnerable suddenly. "Then he shouldn't have started it."  
Charlie's jaw visibly dropped, then he recovered his composure and shook his head.  
"I don't _get_ you, Ivan. I just don't get you."  
George felt differently, but rather than say it, he fixed Ivan with a cool stare.  
"So what is this **really** about?" he demanded impatiently. Max squirmed in George's arms, demanding to be let down, and was taken over to the kitchen playpen where Lavi, Zeno's youngest son, was already sitting. On the way back to the table, George paused to get a glass of water, and Ivan noticed that he leaned rather heavily on the sink, blinking his eyes the way he did when he had a migraine.  
"George? Are you...OK?" he ventured - cautiously, though, because he still wasn't sure whether asking something like that would be considered prying.  
George swayed a little, but swallowed and recovered.  
"Fine. What's wrong with _you_?!?"  
Ivan's eyebrows shot upwards.  
"Me? Nothing's wrong with me; I just - "  
"Then why are you being such a tremendous **cock** to your husband, Ivan?!" he snapped. Charlie Vance raised his eyebrows as well. Ivan hesitated.  
"I'm not being - "  
"You are and you know it!" George swallowed a large gulp of water and went on. "You're treating him like...like a _criminal_."  
"Well, he **is** a - "  
"Hell, getting that much shit from you might drive me to criminal behavior, too. This man does everything for you - he fights your father, he gets you a house (and when you don't like that one, he gets you another), he feeds you, he dotes on you, he puts up with your yelling and your temper tantrums and your screaming _bullshit_ and all he ever does is smile and take it and give you whatever it is that you think you want or you need. And yet you are just **determined** to torture him. Why?" George demanded, leaning more heavily on the sink now. "Huh? Why? What is the point of all of this? What are you trying to get out of him?"  
Charlie's face had changed from alarm to consternation to worry.  
"George…"

The older carrier stopped suddenly, and closed his eyes, then turned to the sink and elegantly vomited. Ivan and Charlie both rushed over to him, but he waved their hands away.

"I'm fine." he said, irritatedly, "I'm fine. It's just the goddamn baby."

~:~

George's little revelation rippled through the Manor with surprising speed; by the afternoon, even the annual-only visitors knew. This news was followed quickly by the disclosure of Charlie's own little secret - that he was one month further along than George. The happy couples were both congratulated, but Charlie and Keith's news was met with particular excitement because of the relief it brought. Charlie had been trying for 3 years now to carry, and this was the first time anything meaningful had come to fruition. 

Ivan, for his part, was delighted for his friend and expressed as much - not even reflecting on how new it was for him to be happy for someone else. He even volunteered, in the flurry of excitement, to work with Miller in planning a celebratory dinner for the lucky parents-to-be.

Despite all the happy hubbub and hoopla, Ivan still felt a sense of unease; he worried over Charlie's warning from that day in the kitchen. _You can't just act that way._ Was Malcolm somehow angrier than he was letting on? Was he angry enough to hurt - 

Here, Ivan interrupted his own thoughts because they were wandering again, into dark places he'd rather not revisit. The thought, unfinished, lingered.   
_Is Malcolm angry enough to hurt me the way I've hurt other people?_

Remembered screams of torment played on, undeterred, in Ivan's mind. And cracking ribs and the sound of the skinburn…  
"Ivan."  
Malcolm's voice startled him out of his reverie and he snapped his head up.  
"Fuck! You scared me."  
Malcolm frowned in disapproval and indicated the toddler in his arms.   
"You keep that up and it's going to be his first word." he leaned forward to hand off Lavi into Ivan's arms, careful not to ruffle the papers of the garden production inventory reports. Ivan closed the notebooks in front of him and took the child, tense, waiting to see if Malcolm would proffer further admonishment. None came, and the placid expression his husband usually wore seemed undisturbed.   
Ivan relaxed, slightly.  
Malcolm leaned to the side, scratching his rib with one oil-stained hand.  
"Zeno asks if you can keep Lavi in here while he works on something in the rec room."  
Ivan rolled his eyes and held his hands out for the toddler. He made certain to hesitate appropriately before taking him, so that Malcolm wouldn't see how eager he was to have the little child in his arms. 

"Fine." he said, sulkily, as he cradled the bairn. Lavi cooed and slapped one damp hand clumsily into Ivan's dark hair, which had now grown long enough to barely tuck behind one ear. Ivan freed himself gently and gave one half-second's fond smile to the little bundle, then turned to take the child over to the kitchen play area. He stopped when he felt Malcolm's gaze upon him. He turned back, the child balanced easily on one hip and both of them looking at Malcolm with identically curious expressions.  
"What?" he asked suspiciously, straightening his shirt nervously. Malcolm, who appeared to be dumbfounded, shook his head.  
"Nothing. Nothing. I just…nothing." he answered hastily, and cleared his throat. "Well, I'm getting back to yardwork." he offered by way of an exit, and then abruptly disappeared.   
Ivan turned to Lavi, who had watched Malcolm leave with an interested expression on his cherubic little face.  
"Hmm," he told the observant baby, "that was peculiar."


	13. July 29

"Stop whinin' that it's hot and drink your lemonade." Malcolm finally told Ivan, exasperated. "It's July and we live in the Commonwealth. Of course it's hot."  
Ivan fanned himself slightly with the edge of his natori.  
"I'm hotter than you are, I bet. I want to go inside."  
"You are not, and no."  
Ivan groaned.  
"Why not? It's too damn hot."  
"Because it's a nice day and we're celebrating, and it was your idea to throw the shower outside anyway. Now watch your language - there's kids around."  
"Sorry. I meant to say that it's too _fucking_ hot."  
A few yards away in the small square of the patio tent, Keith Vance looked at Malcolm, then looked away. Malcolm turned in his chair to face Ivan, and his tone took on a more serious bent.  
"Ivan, that kind of language isn't appropriate. It's disrespectful to all of us. Now, you planned this event, and you planned it for George and Charlie. They're havin' a great time - just loving what you did. So why don't you just settle down and let everybody enjoy it?"  
Ivan chuffed, shook his head, and turned away.  
"Fine."  
Malcolm watched Ivan for another minute, waiting and debating, but the carrier was silent. 

Ivan had become extraordinarily good at this game - pushing just far enough to agitate, but pulling back in time to avoid forcing the issue beyond the tipping point. This new form of rebellion would have to be addressed - Malcolm knew this - but perhaps it could be ignored for now. From across the patio, he felt Keith Vance's disapproving stare burning into his shoulder, but did not react to it. That, too, could be ignored for now. Relieved that the scene hadn't gone any further, Malcolm shifted in his chair, turning to strike up conversation with Tom Gaspar. 

Miller, Tom's mercurial carrier, sat across from his husband at the table, next to Ivan. Seeing that tensions had eased, he leaned forward to engage the other carrier in conversation.  
"It's going really well," he said, in a rare kindness towards Ivan. "You did a good job."  
Ivan shrugged.  
"I guess." he answered, rudely, the other carrier's past cruelties not forgotten. Miller rolled his eyes.  
"What's the problem this time, Ivie?"  
Ivan rankled at the nickname, but didn't rise to the bait.  
"Nothing." he said, shortly.  
"Right." Miller looked at him, coolly. "Is it about George?"  
Stupidly, Ivan flushed at this.  
"No. And there's nothing for anything to be about."  
Miller stared at him for a second longer.  
"So it's not about the fact that he's so busy and beloved now that he's on his third child - and you're not even on your first, of course - that he hasn't had ten minutes to spare for you all week?"

Miller continued to stare at him, and Ivan felt it again - that violent inhumanity that had lain still for some time now. He wanted to hurt Miller - to really, really hurt him. He wanted the carrier to writhe at his hand, to beg, to plead, and for him to have no mercy, only…. As brightly as the flame had burnt, it faded. He heard George's voice in his head, reminding that he didn't have to be _him_ , not that Ivan, not that man ever again, and then he felt pain and guilt and embarrassment at his weakness.

Miller shrugged, as if he really only barely cared.   
"Well, I'm sure things will shape up as he gets further along. It's just the novelty. You're his friend - he loves you, and he'll need you more than ever now." Miller paused. "Things will be fine."  
It astounded Ivan sometimes - how this particular man had the shocking ability to strike so harshly and soothe so gently in one blow. He never was quite sure how to respond to Miller - no tactic seemed right, because he could never distinguish the carrier's kindness from his cruelty. Perhaps they were inextricable.   
Ivan took a settling breath, then answered.  
"I really don't remember telling you that I wanted to talk about it."  
Miller narrowed his eyes.  
"Fine. Fuck me for being nice to the frigid bitch of the Manor, then."

Ivan's whole body went rigid, and he turned just enough so that their conversation was sheltered from the rest of the patio. Ivan felt a weird mixture of anger and fear - how the fuck had he known? How could Miller have found out? Surely George wouldn't have - of course not. There had to be some other explanation, however unlikely. Ivan's heart pounded in his chest. Miller calmly sipped his lemonade.  
"Oh, fuck you, Miller." Ivan bit out, as quietly as he could manage so as not to excite Malcolm's attention. Miller appeared to consider this for a moment.  
"Me, but not your husband? I see where your problem really lies." Miller tilted his head as if he were viewing a particularly curious bird. "You still think of yourself as a man, don't you, Ivie?"  
Ivan's ears and face burned red, but he maintained himself.  
"You don't know anything about me - or my husband."  
"Mmm. I bet. So maybe your bitchy attitude's not about George." Miller posited in a stage whisper. "Maybe it's - gasp - about Malcolm."  
Ivan glared hard at his tablemate-turned-nemesis, trying his best not to think the more monstrous of his thoughts.  
"It's not about Malcolm."  
"Oh." Miller said, picking some of the fruit off of their table's centerpiece. "So it's about Malcolm."  
Ivan ground his jaw and decided to ignore this.  
" _Fuck you_ , Miller. Just - fuck you."  
Miller raised a superior eyebrow and chewed a slice of apple.  
"Better keep your voice down before you get in trouble again." the carrier chuckled. "Honestly, Ivan - swearing? It's sad that you're less civilized than Max. I can't wait until Malcolm gets sick of you playing pretty-pretty-princess and teaches you some goddamn manners."

Ivan bristled and felt overheated and upset and silly all at once. He was out of his depth, somehow, although he had handled hundreds of men and carriers far worse than this before. Miller seemed to see right through him - to read him in some sadistic way - and now he was hitting Ivan in all the places where he was most fragile.  
"I have more manners than you, you inbred cunt."  
Miller scoffed.   
"You like to wreak havoc on other people's good time and think it's cute. You've ruined every dinner party I've thrown in the past 3 months, you've broken more dishes than anyone else in the house - children included - and yet you somehow are still under the delusion that people like you." he took another swallow of lemonade. "Frankly, it's shocking."  
"Leave me alone, Miller." Ivan demanded, but his voice shook just a bit. "Enough."

Ivan felt trapped between so many solidities that he had no idea where to turn. If he raged, he risked angering Malcolm or, worse, disappointing George and ruining his party. If he ignored Miller, that meant the silent absorption of an attack on every weakness, every tender spot, every sensitivity; something he was unsure he could accept. If he delved, as he longed to do, into the depths of the darkness in his own mind, then he risked losing himself, frightening himself, and worst of all, failing himself. There was nothing to do but be still and wait to act and tremble in upset and hope Malcolm would notice.

Miller's face was carefully expressionless, and he did not look at Ivan, but there was a tension in him - the eager anticipation of a cat with cornered prey. Miller lowered his voice even further.  
"I cannot wait until Malcolm finally snaps and beats the shit out of your ungrateful ass." Ivan gripped the arms on his chair and didn't answer. Miller cast one more of those serene, vicious looks at him and added: "Just like Daddy."

It all happened so quickly after that that Ivan had no time to think, to rethink, or to even consider stopping himself. Before Miller could even raise the glass, Ivan was on him, lemonade was everywhere, the glass was broken, the table was kicked out of the way, and the centerpiece went crashing to the floor. In the midst of it, Ivan found his way to Miller's throat, took an unexpected blow from the carrier that knocked the breath from him, lost his grip and then his position on top, and swung blindly for his opponent's abdomen. From what felt like miles away, he heard screaming and his name. Miller grappled his way to top spot and landed a solid strike that missed Ivan's jaw but hit the side of his head instead. 

Rage flowed through him untamed - he clawed at Miller's shirt, and then soon - too soon! - Miller's weight was gone and the hands he had been expecting were dragging him backwards, across the dusty ground and into the sunlight. 

"IVAN!" Malcolm was screaming, "WHAT THE _FUCK_ ARE YOU DOING?!"

~:~

This time, there were no excuses. There was no reasoning with Malcolm, there was no apologizing for his behavior. There was no staged discipline, there was no stair-step of response. There was only the very real silence that fell over the party that he had very really ruined, and the very, very, absolutely real fact that Malcolm was going to beat him.

He had been subdued in less than 20 seconds. Impressive, Ivan thought, until he remembered that Malcolm was an MP and probably had been on combat at some point in his life - although absurdly, it only occurred to Ivan at that moment to ask where and when.

Then Malcolm had him bent over the ruined table and Keith Vance - that spiteful bastard - was there, but Malcolm screamed him off and Ivan felt a little whoop of victory that was chased quickly into silence by the humiliation of having his natori yanked up and 10 seconds (during which Malcolm was pulling off his belt with frustrated hands) to consider fearfully how bad this was going to be. Malcolm, his face flushed and eyes dark in a way that Ivan had never seen before, had folded Ivan's arm against his back, limiting his movement and cutting his leverage. Ivan tried to wriggle and got a growl for an answer:  
"15 and if you fucking move I make it 30."

The first strike landed solidly and sideways, at a weird angle that put welts on his thigh and told him in no uncertain terms that Malcolm was not only furious, but also half-blind with his rage. By the third, the blows were coming straight on and evenly spaced and Ivan's ass was on fire from the agony and the embarrassment. By seven, he was numb in some places and screaming pain in others. By ten, he was openly crying. Malcolm stopped then, for just half a minute to shake him.  
"Do you see now, Ivan?!" his husband demanded. "Do you see what I will do?!"  
Then he had turned Ivan back over and laid the strap into him once again.

Fifteen came to Malcolm, exhausted; to Ivan, agonized. Malcolm released him, roughly, so that he stumbled a little over the broken corner of the table. Hastily, he began to cover himself, pulling down his natori as he scurried backwards from his husband. Malcolm was still in a rage - Ivan could see that, exacerbated as his expression might be by the shadowy light and wild way his hair had gone. 

"If you ever," he began, " _Ever_ treat another member of the Manor household like that again, I will beat you until you can't stand up. Is that clear?"

Ivan, unable to reign in his tears or eliminate his whimpering, simply nodded. Behind him, he was terribly aware of the entirety of the party crew watching him - staring. They had seen his punishment, too. And his tears. He thought of Miller and felt embarrassed all over again. Perversely, he glanced around to look for him, but saw that the carrier and his husband were nowhere in sight. Had they not wanted to watch Ivan's personal mortification?

Malcolm said a few more words as he obviously tried to calm himself down - something about what Ivan had done wrong and what would be expected of him for the rest of the day. Ivan heard nothing - he could process only the fast, painful beating of his own heart in his head and the agony of defeated humiliation. Eventually, he understood one command:  
"Inside. Now."  
…and did as he was told.


	14. July 30

Malcolm hadn't come home that night. Ivan knew this because he had lain awake, waiting for footsteps outside the door that never came. Sometime after midnight, there was a timid tap on the door and then someone - who proved to be George - let himself in. 

He hadn't said much; he had just crawled into the bed beside Ivan in the darkened room and apologized. Ivan had halfway listened; he wanted the voice more than he wanted the words. George curled up against his back and slipped an arm around him and just held him like that, with the thin cotton sheet laid over both of them and the window open to get a night breeze. Ivan had cried silently for hours. 

Ivan woke sometime in the middle of the night to find George lying on his back beside him, the weight of his touch gone from Ivan's side. The younger carrier stirred, missing the comfort, and George had recognized this as wakefulness and spoken.  
"They're not going to let you see him," he said, in a tone that was almost regretful. "Not until this is over."

For a moment, Ivan was disoriented - until what was over? The possibility had not occurred to him yet - and in truth, he could not fully conceive of it still - that Malcolm might be in some kind of trouble for this. For what? For Ivan's mistake? For Ivan's foolishness? It made him sick and achy to think that. Ivan felt un-right; trauma, he supposed. He felt shaky and off-kilter and queer and just not _there_.

Although he had never seen it done before, he wondered if perhaps the Manor held some perverse responsibility over husbands' heads so that they were punished for the sins of their carriers. Ivan hoped that was not the case. The only thing worse than taking a beating was to have another take it for you, he felt. 

"Until what's over?" he asked George, his George, his beloved friend who knew everything, who had all the answers, and who would always give them to Ivan if only he would ask.   
"The trial."  
Now Ivan wished he hadn't heard this. If he had sent another innocent man to trial...  
"What trial?"  
George remained on his back, but turned his head to look at Ivan in the moonlight.  
"What he did to you wasn't right, Ivan. The way he treated you wasn't right."  
Ivan shook his head, not comprehending.  
"But he only struck me." he argued, pitifully, wanting George to listen to him and accept it and make it all right. Make the night end and Malcolm come back and the party just go on without him and no one remember anything at all. "And it was only because I ruined the party."  
"No." George said, fiercely. "He lost control. They don't like that here. One thing a Manor man should never, ever do is lose control."

Ivan felt a sickness welling up in the pit of his empty stomach.  
"Well, what - what are they going to do to him?"  
George turned his gaze back to the ceiling fan.  
"I don't know." he said, and Ivan's heart skipped a beat.

~:~

Malcolm hadn't quite understood when Keith Vance had come up behind him after Ivan's departure and grasped his elbow.  
"Malcolm?" he'd said, calmly. "You need to come with me."  
Malcolm had frowned at him, bewildered and still angry and only now feeling embarrassment and a slight twinge of regret.  
"I need to go deal with my carrier."  
Keith had given him a wan smile.  
"You need to come inside. We need to talk."

Malcolm had looked up then and seen that the other men were advancing on him. He turned quickly to the side; a carrier standing some distance away jumped. He turned sharply again and another did the same thing. Were they frightened of him? Why?  
Tom Davies was approaching him from the front.  
"You need to come inside now, Malcolm." he said, firmly. He was holding something in his hands; a rope. Where had he gotten a rope?

Malcolm cast around again. Ivan was gone, inside. Out of his sight, which was a good thing, because even the sight of his carrier might be enough to send him into a rage right now. And where was that other one? The kitchen bitch? Tom Gaspar was gone as well.   
Someone caught a hold of Malcolm's other arm; it was Jake Bratton.

"Let's go, Mal." he said, and his voice was angry, but calm.   
Malcolm got the sudden, stupid idea to pull away, and he succeeded in getting one arm free before the other men swarmed him and he was dragged, face first into the ground.

~

He had told them he wanted out. They had told him there was no such thing.

"You came here because you needed us, Malcolm. You stay until that's no longer the case."  
Mal shook his head, really angry by this point, no longer intimidated or afraid, but coasting high on his own pure rage.  
"But this is illegal! You can't hold an officer of the law against his will! I will report - "  
"You'll report nothing to anyone." Tom Davies had spoken up, quickly. "You can be sure of that."  
Malcolm had tried to test his bonds; he was forced standing, arms and legs spread and bound. He reviewed his training in his head and came up with a few scenarios for escape.  
"Let me go, you sick motherfuckers! Let me **go**!" he swore. Keith Vance shook his head.  
"Just you?" he asked, and the absence of Malcolm's mention of his carrier made his face burn with embarrassment.  
"What do you want with me?" he demanded.  
Tom Davies raised a brow.  
"To teach you. To help you. To fix you, essentially."  
"I'm not broken; I don't need no fixin', you sons-of-bitches, let me go!!"

They had ignored him and wheeled a cart up behind him. It irritated and then angered him that he couldn't see what it was. Tom Gaspar, the owner of that insufferable carrier who had caused this whole damn scene, stepped forward. Malcolm wanted to lunge for him, but knew that the effort would be futile. He settled for glaring instead. 

Gaspar shook his head.  
"I'm sorry, Mal, but we can't let you go."  
Malcolm, eyes black with rage and hair wild again, swore and tested his bonds, then settled back.  
"Why not?!" he demanded.   
Tom Gaspar looked him directly in his face and shook his head sadly.  
"Because you're going to kill that carrier of yours," he said. "I know you will."

Malcolm was so taken aback that for a moment, he went slack. Keith Vance took the advantage of that moment to lay the first lick of the whip across Malcolm's back. He screamed and arched and fell back.

"Fuck! Fuck! You crazy motherfuckers!"  
Tom Gaspar watched impassively.  
"Let's talk, Malcolm."  
Malcolm stared at him as if he had grown two heads.  
"He's whippin' my ass and you want me to talk?!"  
Tom blinked.  
"Yes."  
A crack, and it fell again. Malcolm screamed. Tom went on.  
"You're failing us, Malcolm."  
Mal blinked at the man in front of him; his brain tried to make sense of everything that was going on, but time and memories were becoming jumbled. The party, the cooking, gifts, fighting, Ivan gone, then this basement dungeon, for how long? Hours?   
"We told you when you got here that there would be tests. We didn't say we would administer them. But now he's testing you, and you're failing."  
What? Malcolm couldn't make sense of this.  
"Who?!" he yelped.  
"Ivan." Tom Gaspar answered, and another lick fell. 

Malcolm hissed this time, and swore and shouted and arced up on his toes.  
"Ah fuck!" he felt in a muddle, but he tried to comprehend; if he could understand enough to just get out of here, then maybe - "He's testing me? And I'm failing. I'm failing because of the party? Because I can't get him right - because I didn't train him good enough. Because I let him act out."  
Tom Gaspar shook his head in obvious frustration.  
"No, Malcolm, you're failing because _you_ acted out."  
Malcolm's brow furrowed in utter confusion.  
"What? I didn't - "  
"The training isn't about Ivan!" Tom Gaspar finally snapped, irritatedly. "It's about you."  
Malcolm stared at him.  
"The notebooks, the lessons - those don't go to Ivan, do they?" Gaspar demanded. "The weekly meetings - we don't sit down with him, do we? The constant assessment - that's not for him, is it?? So why would you think it was Ivan who we were trying to teach?"  
Gaspar came closer, and in his walk, his anger was evident.  
"You haven't learned anything in the time you've been here, have you? No firmness, no patience, no self-control. You snap at him, you get exasperated, you get frustrated, and then you lose it all and beat him senseless before a public audience. Well, let me teach you this. This is your lesson to learn, Malcolm Lawdon: when you lose control, people get hurt. Carriers get hurt. Ivan gets hurt. Ivan gets damaged, and we can only hope that your handiwork is not irreparable."

Malcolm felt a punch of guilt in his belly, but he squashed it with anger at being treated like this. His wrists began to numb a little, and he wiggled his fingers to get the feeling back. Another strike fell, and he twisted and cried out.

"This is not the way to teach me! I can't fucking learn like this - I - you're beating me! Let me down, you sick fucks, and I'll go upstairs and see if he's alright and then we'll get the hell out of here and I won't ever have reason to lay a hand on him again." he finished in a rush. "I promise. I promise. I promise."  
Jake Bratton, who had until this point, been silent in the shadows, stepped forward.  
"If we let you go now, Malcolm," he said, sadly, "You'll most certainly hurt him again." he shook his head. "I'm sorry."  
Malcolm panted for breath and then the next lash fell.  
"Ahhh! Fuck!" he licked his lips. "OK. OK. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
From the side, Gaspar shook his head.  
"You're not, yet - but you will be."  
"I won't do it again." he promised. "I'll never touch him again." Behind him, he heard the clink of something metal and he felt dread well up within him.  
"You're a danger, Malcolm. To yourself and to your carrier."  
"Just let me - just let me see him."  
"No." Gaspar said, moving back in front of him. "Not until we're done."


	15. August

"I don't get it." he moaned, a pitiful voice dragging out of a parched throat. "What am I supposed to understand?"  
As ever, there was no answer but that incessant striking of the drum and Tom Gaspar's voice droning from the shadows of the room.

He was part of a ceremony; this much had been explained to Malcolm in bits and pieces throughout the first night.   
We are cleansing you, they said. So that you might be reborn.  
You are a Manor man now, they told him. You are a man of higher ways.  
You are one of us now, he heard. This is your home.  
Perfect yourself, they told him. Make yourself worthy.

~:~

George had stayed with Ivan every night, and had promised he would until Malcolm came back. This had been Ivan's only indication that Malcolm would come back.

The men had all gone missing, one by one, since that night, and yet things continued in a perturbingly unperturbed way. All the carriers behaved exactly as if nothing were wrong - in fact, everyone appeared to be on the best behavior they could possibly muster. Meals were made, shared, and cleaned up; laundry was washed; gardens were tended; exercise was undertaken. No questions were asked, either of Ivan or George. No arguments arose, and no duties were shirked. Miller was nowhere to be seen.

This bizarre non-recognition both irritated and intimated Ivan; he felt pressured to behave in keeping with the rest, and therefore did not raise any of the million questions he had in his mind. He also behaved well - he did not ignore or avoid the others, although they lingered close to him in a way that made it apparent that he was being watched. 

During the day, he did his chores and went to the greenhouse and then on long walks with George. He asked no questions, made no fuss over this or that, and did as he was told. At night, he slept in Malcolm's gray t-shirt and cried after George fell asleep. What was this place? Ivan didn't understand it. In his former life, his former position, he would have been privy to any and all information pertinent to the well-being of carriers in the Union - and yet he'd never heard of this place. The Manor? Even if it was some sort of group home, there had to be paperwork on that, hadn't there? Had these people really flown so low below the radar as to go undetected? They weren't hermits; they were prominent men who held jobs and had accounts…

Ivan was struck with another, sudden, strange fear. Malcolm's job - what about that? What would happen to it? Ivan thought it was a stupid job anyway, but Malcolm seemed attached to it, and Ivan supposed that he, then, by extension, should feel attached. To what else was he attached? Nothing. To whom? To Malcolm. And without him? No one. A jolt of fear raced through Ivan, then simmered. He had only Malcolm, and no one else.   
Ivan shivered.   
Who would he belong to if Malcolm never returned?

~:~

There were symbols on the floor, he realized, hazily. They had given him something; that was the haze. Or was it? Was it just fatigue? How long had he been here? There were symbols on the floor - a flower, a rose; and an animal - a wolf? There was a curving sheaf of some sort, and an arrow, broken, and another obscure drawn thing that his position made difficult to see or determine. 

The men were all circled around him, wearing their dark paint and naked, all. They held out their hands to him; Malcolm wanted to reach for one and bring him down, break his skull on the floor and flee. Instead, he did nothing. He was in pain; agony - he was regretting. 

~:~

That night, when they went to bed, George tried to kiss Ivan. Startled, Ivan jerked away, out of reach, and glared at him.  
"What are you doing?" he asked, quickly and without really wanting to hear the answer.  
George raised one eyebrow.  
"Calming you down," he soothed, stroking his friend's shoulder. "Bringing you back." He drew closer. "This has been hard on you."  
Ivan shrugged off the touch more harshly than he meant to.  
"I'm fine. And I said I don't want that - leave me alone."  
Ivan said this with an excess of demonstrative ferocity. George released him, and watched from across the room as his friend went about the nightly business of dressing and going to bed. When they were in together, with George sleeping closest to the door so that Ivan felt secure, the blonde put an arm around the younger carrier and tucked in close for the night.  
"Fine." he said, patiently, "Then just let me hold you."

~:~

There was a shrine before him, the only bright thing in the room. It reflected the candlelight. He squinted at it; it was the Pièta. An animal lay at her feet - another wolf.

The two Toms knelt beside him - all of the men knelt in this room - and were silent.   
"Do you understand?" one asked him, eventually, and for a brief moment, Malcolm thought he did. Then it was gone, and the lie was too much to concoct.  
"No." he told me, and his voice croaked. "I don't understand yet."  
They took him from this room to the other, with the symbols on the floor.

~:~

Ivan woke up every day angry at everybody. Malcolm was still gone. Occasionally, Ivan would be in the midst of an activity - mopping, or weed pulling, or canning, and he would feel a strike of dread in his chest; he would seize, and gasp for air, and in that moment, he felt greater fear than he ever had in his life. In those moments, he feared Malcolm was dead and he was alone.

George had sensed something of this fear and had promised Ivan twice now that he would always be welcome at the Manor, no matter the circumstances - whether Malcolm came back or didn't. This was the first time they had spoken openly of that particular possibility, and Ivan's stomach had given up immediately and he had vomited all over the brick of the back stairs.

~:~

They gave him something to make him sleep and he had fevered dreams of escape, of agony, of a final swift death, and of Ivan.

On the last night, he dreamed of fishes - six, circling the body of his beloved who lay sprawled across the grass in a meadow, delicate flowers crushed under his weight. He was in pain - had he fallen? Malcolm couldn't be sure - he tried to venture closer, but the meadow was water and he needed a boat. Could he swim? He tried to swim, but there was nothing to buoy him - there was only the great bottomless depth of white-black water and Ivan laying there out in the middle of it. He called out to him, and his beloved turned; Malcolm's belly contracted in revulsion - Ivan had the face of the wolf.

He woke with a start. 

~:~

Ivan kept losing his grip a little more, every time they spoke of Malcolm. His stomach felt ill all the time now; his head ached in a dull, tired way. His skin was dry and his hair kept missing the wash somehow. He stacked cups in the kitchen, then took them down again, crying because he couldn't remember their names. He lost himself for an hour in a corner of the sink, furious because scrubbing wouldn't make it clean so that the faucet wouldn't drip. George had to stop him from anxiously burying the vegetables - all of whom he suspected of being wrongly collected - back in the dirt.

~:~

They were growing impatient with him. Malcolm could sense this, but he had no answers for it. When he woke again, his sense of time was lost. How long had he been asleep? There were no windows, no clocks - nothing to mark the passage of time but the return of awareness of his bladder. They fed him irregularly. They had washed him twice, with buckets - he was sure he needed more. 

They asked him questions about his beloved. Who was that? Malcolm frowned. They must mean Ivan. Ivan is his beloved. Ivan is his prayerful stone, his sacred law, his held divinity. 

Malcolm thinks that last thought, then understands.

~:~

Miller had returned early in the day, and although there had been some anxious glances thrown around, Ivan's thoughts had been so preoccupied that he had barely taken notice.

When he did realize, he wondered at the paranoia of them all. They were afraid he would fight Miller again, but fight him over what? Everything he'd been angry about was gone now. Nothing existed beyond the confines of his own confused mind. There was no dignity in this kind of pain - only the bleak, gray nothingness of long-suffered fear. So he neither avoided nor sought out Miller; it didn't even occur to him to do so. He only thought of the next step, then the next, then the one after it. There was nothing else.

Ivan was peeling vegetables for the dinner salad when Miller cornered him in the kitchen and kissed him. Ivan pulled away, startled, and anticipated the feeling of rage that simmered always inside of him; none came. There was only an emptiness, and a fear, and a sorrow that could not be grasped or understood. Miller looked deeply into his eyes, blue to blue.  
"I'm sorry." he whispered, and pulled his face closer so that their noses pressed together. Somehow, Ivan became aware that he was crying. "I'm sorry, Ivan." Across the room, George, who had crept in - being never too far from Ivan - stiffened and looked on in fright. Miller stroked his slim fingers through Ivan's dirty hair. "But I only had to make you one of us."

Without understanding, Ivan felt relief and knew that Malcolm was alive.


	16. August & After

Tom Gaspar was watching him, leaning against the edge of the tiled shower stall. Malcolm didn't care. The water felt too good and he felt too elated, too bright, too filled with new knowledge. He closed his eyes and felt the hot pricking drip-drop silver sluices of water strike his head, neck, back, shoulders. Impulse overcame him and he stuck out his tongue to taste it, then began gulping in short, hot breaths.

"Take it easy, buddy." Tom warned, shifting his weight as if to come forward and Malcolm laughed, his dark hair trembling beneath the weight of the water.  
"So this is it?" he asked, sprawling both hands over the tile. Tom Gaspar gave a smile whose meaning was incomprehensible.  
"This is it."  
Malcolm looked over his shoulder.  
"Does it always feel this way?"  
Tom laughed a little.  
"At first. But that'll fade."

Malcolm turned back to the white wall, slid his index finger down the slit between tiles where grout had cracked and split away. Everything felt important now, and he tried to memorize the texture of things - the dimensions of smell and sound and awareness that made them real.

"What if I hadn't made it?" he asked, speaking aloud the question that had been burning in his belly since they'd first told him why. Tom Gaspar didn't answer. Malcolm coughed and thought about something else.

"I feel…immense."  
Tom smiled.  
"You should. You are."  
Malcolm shook his head under the stream of the water and his bare feet made a wet slapping sound against the cement ground.  
"I want Ivan."  
Tom nodded.  
"I know."  
"What's he doing now?"  
"He's in good hands with the others."

There was another question that Malcolm wanted to ask, but it stuck in his belly and crawled and curled and was recalcitrant to be regurgitated. After a few minutes longer, Tom Gaspar spoke again.  
"I can't let you go back to him until I'm sure you understand, Malcolm."  
Dark eyes flicked over Tom - his dark slacks; his shirt, damp; his bare feet. The new initiate answered eagerly.   
"I _get_ it. I do."  
Tom looked skeptically - or perhaps it was expectantly? - at the stripped man in front of him and waited. 

Malcolm stood straight and turned to face Tom. He took a deep, slow breath, then closed his eyes and felt drops of water race warmly, rapidly, urgently from his hairline down to the small of his back.  
"I have the power." he explained, voice ghosting, hands spreading to either side of himself.  
"What power?" Tom demanded, unmoved.  
"Our power. The fascinum's power. I am a man - I am divine. This world is mine; I am its king."   
Malcolm keened then, the sound of their chant in his head powerful and intrusive and magnificently present. Tom's posture was relaxed, but his voice demanded more.  
"And what is Ivan to you?"  
"Ivan is my stone, my source - my root. Without him, my power is nothing. With him, my power is everything."

~:~

George had kept Ivan sane - or as sane as could be expected - during the time that Malcolm was gone. At this point, the men had been gone longer than any of the carriers had anticipated. There had been occasional contact, of course, for each of them from their husbands, and Miller seemed to have received a confirmation that Malcolm had passed the tests, but there had been no further information regarding Mal's whereabouts and all of them knew better than to ask. This silent ignorance had made for a tense house, and Ivan was all too aware of it. 

"He's not coming back, is he?" he asked George, for what felt like the thousandth time.  
"Of course he is, Ivan." George answered distractedly. "Pay attention to what you're doing."  
They were canning fruits and summer vegetables to store for the winter, and Ivan had almost burnt himself twice on the pot.  
"If he doesn't - "  
"Then you'll stay here."  
Although the conversation never went further than this point, George was well aware of the plea that remained unspoken: _Please don't send me back to my father._  
Ivan settled after that, but not for long.

"I'm hot."  
"We're all hot." George retorted, his patience wearing thin. Miller looked up from the table a few yards away where he was slicing apples for Lavi and Max.  
"George…" he said, softly, and the blonde carrier glanced at him, then sighed. Long minutes passed with no sound but Lavi and Max's squealing conversation and the clinking of spoons and lids and pots and jars. Miller put the apple slices onto a blue plastic plate and pushed them towards the boys, then turned his attention to Ivan.  
"So," he began, slowly, "You understand that Malcolm won't be the same when he comes back, right, Ivan?"  
Ivan shrugged and adjusted the flame under the pot.  
"Don't know. Sort of. Maybe." he straightened back up and turned half-sideways to Miller, but didn't meet his eyes. "The same like how?"  
Miller cast a cautious glance at George, but the elder blonde carrier gave no protest to this line of conversation.  
"Well," he continued, "They are...training him now."

Ivan just blinked. Training. That word took him back to a forbidding place in his mind. He had been there himself - in training. He had learned to hate, to be cold. To hear a man begging for his life and think nothing of it. To administer the lethal dose -

"Ivan."

Two hands on his shoulders brought him out of it. George was here, in front of him, his eyes looking worriedly into Ivan's. "It's over now." he told him, firmly - the same solid, calming voice he used when Ivan woke, sweaty, with night terrors. Ivan blinked and swallowed.  
"What are they - what are they training him to do?"  
Miller looked guiltily down at the table, then back up.  
"Teaching." he said. "I should have said teaching." he glanced away, then back. "They'll want him to be a Man of the Manor now. A man like them. So they'll teach him all their rules. About how to live, how to behave. About who is one of us and who is not. Where to go, who to see. How to live like us."  
Ivan continued to stare at Miller, feeling that he was learning nothing he hadn't been told before.  
"OK…"  
Miller glanced again at George before going on.  
"They will have taken him to the temple, shown him the symbols, and opened his eyes to the Inspiration." Miller looked meaningfully at Ivan. "If he survived this, then they will have taken him to meet Fascinus."  
Ivan ran in his head through all of the briefing documents he'd ever read about sectarian beliefs, minor religions, even mythology, but the origin of that name remained frustratingly elusive. Miller furrowed his brow and leaned forward, as if divulging to Ivan something of immense importance.  
"Fascinus decides which men are worthy, and which are not."  
Ivan didn't ask the obvious question.  
"Is Malcolm going to be worthy?" he asked, instead  
Miller leaned back in his chair, and his face took on a distant expression.  
"Only Fascinus knows."

Miller glanced behind Ivan to George; Ivan looked briefly at George and was surprised to find censure in his expression. Miller must have seen this, too, and known it was for him, but he looked defiantly back at George, then demurely away. Ivan did not understand or care about this exchange; the tension thrummed in the room, but he had only one concern: Malcolm. He felt his heart begin to race.

"But what if he isn't worthy?" he asked, anxiously, personal regrets tainting his rationality and making his fears seem inescapable. "What if he doesn't make it?" George looked kindly at him.  
"I wish I could tell you. But I've been a carrier as long as I've been here. I've never seen the ritual. Only men, who are _promised to secrecy_ , are allowed."   
Here, his gaze slid over to Miller, and Ivan understood a bit better what was passing between them.  
"Miller?" Ivan asked, and although he had begun with the intention to demand answers of this man who already owed him deeply, he found his voice took a turn towards the beseeching. "Tell me what they do to him."  
Miller looked panicked, then hesitant, but then seemed to settle on answering.

"I don't - I don't know everything. Just the chant, and the wine - the Inspiration…there's something in it that gives you visions. I don't know what it is, but it's awful. If you live beyond it, then they give you something to make you sleep. I slept 2 days, but it felt like an hour. I woke and could barely remember my own name. I couldn't stop vomiting, I saw things that weren't there; I tried to throttle myself; I saw my long-gone mother. My tongue felt like a wet towel in my mouth and my skin felt like it was itching off." Miller looked up at him, and his face was naked with remembering. "It was awful." he said, plainly.

Ivan felt the tiniest pang of something that might be called sympathy/appreciation, but it died a swift death in the face of Miller's past cruelties.  
"Will they hurt him?" Ivan asked, and was surprised to hear the urgency in his own voice.  
Miller hesitated.  
"They didn't hurt me. But the ritual is different for everyone. And Malcolm had broken the rules when they took him…" he trailed off, and Ivan looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. Miller saw this, too, and reached out recklessly to touch him; Ivan snatched his hand away. Miller looked up at him with wide eyes.  
"Ivan - "  
"Leave it, Miller." George's voice was firm, and a little bit angry. "Leave him be."


	17. After.

Ivan was sleeping and so missed the exact moment when Malcolm and the men arrived. This was no matter; he was woken presently by a loud sound and sat up in time to see Malcolm, nude, entering their bedroom still wet from the shower, toweling his dark hair.

"Mal?!" It was silly, but Ivan felt he had to inquire, because part of him suspected that he might still be seeing things; his own thoughts were not to be trusted. But then the apparition smiled.   
"Ivan."

The carrier blinked a few times; his head felt surprisingly clear, but his vision seemed to be blurred by something. Out of habit, he raised a hand to his eyes and wiped them clear. Malcolm moved forward, and Ivan knew immediately that what Miller had said in the kitchen was accurate. He was not the same; his movements were odd, almost lyrical, as if he carried a new weight or a new balance within him. There was a smattering of bruises along his torso and upper thighs, a healing mark here and there on his knees and shins, and an angry purple bruise on his left temple. 

Ivan wanted to say everything, to make a full confession before this vision - this ghost - before he disappeared forever and Ivan was lost to the void. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words dried in his throat and blew away. Malcolm came closer, and Ivan was gripped with an irrational fear; that if he came too close, he would touch Ivan an this beautiful dream would be lost - the vision would break and scatter on the wind. Malcolm sat down on the edge of the bed and even at a distance, Ivan could feel the heat from him.

"I've missed you, Ivan." was all he said, then he reached out and caught the shivering carrier's wrist in one hand. Ivan froze, and blinked twice (discreetly, so as not to broadcast his fear), and waited…but nothing happened. Malcolm was real, the heat of his skin was real, the water dripping onto the white coverlet from his still-wet hair was real, the towel, stained and with a small hole in the corner from where it had caught in the doorjamb once, was real. Everything was real.

Malcolm pulled the towel from his neck, dropped it on the floor. Then he began to move again, with that sinuous, novel way of his, bringing Ivan closer even as he leveraged himself into a better position on their bed. He drew the carrier in for a kiss; Ivan did not resist, out of respect and out of fear of this new thing that was in Malcolm. Their embrace was hungry, and bold, and Ivan tasted mint in Malcolm's mouth, and also something that had a dark, smoky hue and seemed vaguely medicinal. Then Malcolm pushed him, so that he fell onto his back on the ragged pile of sheets all mussed from where he had been fitfully sleeping. Ivan tried to get back up, but Malcolm had shifted between his legs, throwing his balance. Then Mal caught his hips and turned them upwards; like a shot, he was inside of Ivan. 

Ivan hadn't even known he was ready, but in the moment of entrance, there was no struggle or even friction - just a smooth slide into the place where he had wanted to be, longed to be, these past lonely weeks. Malcolm did not come down towards him; instead, he kept his hands on Ivan's hips as he thrust himself forward, slipping backwards and leaning just slightly on his haunches before launching fully again into the carrier's exposed cunt. He burst abruptly and without warning to Ivan, his fingers on Ivan's pelvis tightening so fiercely that there might be bruises. 

Ivan gave no resistance throughout this enterprise. There was nothing to say that could convey his feelings, and to try would have thrown the whole thing off and then Malcolm might have gotten angry and left again and Ivan couldn't have that. He couldn't have that. And so he spread his legs and did not ask questions about where Malcolm had been and what he had seen and why he moved now as if something had uncoiled itself from the base of his spine. Instead, he panted and groaned, and when Malcolm finished inside of him, spurting bursts of hot cum between his walls, he was thankful. 

~:~

What they had between them was sacred. Malcolm knew that now. They were tied up in it together, two serpents with tangled tails, bound together by the irreversibility of their bond.   
Malcolm slept, and he dreamed again of the meadow.  
Ivan slept, and he dreamed of nothing.


	18. Long After.

There were rabbits who kept getting into the garden at this time of year, and it made Zeno crazy, so Ivan had offered to help him build a fence and was now crouching in the dirt, his hands wrapped around the rusty wire as they worked to set the fence.

The sun was hot - hotter than it should have been so early in the year, but that was the Commonwealth for you, and he had learned not to complain. Uncomfortable nonetheless, Ivan wiped his brow with the back of one hand, lifting the brim of his hat slightly and smearing mud into the fringe of his hair.

Malcolm was across the greenspace, gathered with some of the men as they went about the arduous work of planting trees with a half-broken auger in the hot sun. His shirt was off, and Ivan was able to surreptitiously enjoy a view of his husband's sweat-slicked back, his muscles glistening in the sunlight. Malcolm had become so strong in the time they'd spent here - the chores of caring for a homestead had made their mark on him. Everything here had made its mark on Malcolm.

Perhaps growing tired of his shoveling, Ivan watched across the yard as Malcolm straightened up and stretched, the black tendrils of Fascinus' tattoo curling along his torso as he turned his body. Ivan felt his breath catch in his throat momentarily, and he quickly turned his eyes back to his own soil, if only to avoid the embarrassment of being caught staring.

A bell rang out from the kitchen window, and Ivan gratefully set aside his tools and headed towards the house for lunch. Malcolm met him on the way, and bumped Ivan gently with one hip, then kissed him on the cheek. Ivan made a face and kissed him back. Keith Vance slipped by them to go and kiss Charlie, who had appeared in the hallway, balancing little blond Lemon on one hip.

~:~

The men all ate at the table in the main dining room; the carriers gathered at the tables scattered around the screened-in porch. Ivan tried to prepare a plate for himself, but was preempted by George, who cut in front of him and placed a full meal squarely in his hands.  
"Well, you obviously won't take my advice about working in the hot sun," he began, "But maybe you'll at least listen to me when I tell you to eat something or you're going to pass out."  
Ivan tried to look annoyed, but felt too much love for his friend and grinned instead.  
"Thanks." he answered, simply, and began to examine the plate.  
"Nothing on there you don't like." George assured him. "No onions, no cucumbers. And I made sure the meats and fruits were on opposite sides this time."  
Ivan grinned.  
"It's not my fault, you know - "  
George raised a hand to cut him off.  
"You've told me a million times. I get it."

Ivan had planned to answer back, but Miller appeared in the doorway, looking annoyed. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared daggers at the pair of them.  
"Alec," he began, putting as much disdain as possible into that name, "Is cutting the cakes into eighths, not twelfths."  
Ivan and George both nodded somberly.  
"I'll deal with him - don't you worry." George promised, while Ivan worked hard to suppress the urge to laugh. Miller frowned, as if he felt the problem weren't being taken seriously enough, but ultimately turned and left the two alone. The moment he was gone, the two fell into laughter until Ivan managed to calm himself.  
"Alright. I think we should step in; Alec's got no idea what he's messing with when it comes to Miller and birthdays."  
George nodded.  
"Agreed. Wouldn't want to terrify the new couple on their first week here, would we?"  
"Of course not. Who would want to do that?"

~:~

"Ivan."  
Malcolm's voice had that particular, familiar tenor to it, and Ivan's belly seized up momentarily before he could remember that it was OK, that things were fine, that it was just Malcolm alone, and that what was in the past was in the past.  
"I'm here." he answered, and moved out into the main part of their suite, dressed in black underwear and a fitted V-neck, still toweling his hair dry. Malcolm, who had just entered and was setting things down on the desk by the door, paused, tilted his head and looked at Ivan with an undisguised desire. The setting sun cast their apartment in a dim glow, giving Malcolm a mysterious, mischievous look. Ivan took in the view, then raised an eyebrow at his husband.  
"Had a good day?"  
"Very good." Malcolm agreed, and his voice was low and dark and had some meaning in it that gave Ivan pause; he peered up from under the towel.  
"You buried him?"  
Malcolm disconnected the last of his tools from his belt and set it on the desk.  
"He's gone."  
Ivan blinked. A shudder that felt like a ghost ran through him.  
"Thank you."  
Malcolm turned to look at him, and his eyes were those same dark eyes that he'd had the first night that Ivan had seen him by the jeep.  
"Don't mention it." Malcolm's eyes flickered away. "Dinner's on. You hungry?"  
"Yes." Ivan answered, too quickly, and so he corrected himself. "Sort of."  
Malcolm paused, mid-motion, seeming to think something over, then continued to kick off his boots.  
"Alright. Dinner it is. Just let me get washed up first."  
Malcolm stood and headed for the shower, but Ivan intercepted him.  
"I can join you, if you like." he offered, shy gray eyes presenting nakedly to Malcolm's dark ones. Malcolm seemed to consider this for a moment before answering.  
"Come on, then."

Ivan let Malcolm strip and go in first, stepping in carefully behind him. Malcolm handed him the soap and a cloth, then turned back to the water flow. Ivan soaped the cloth and drew it first over his husband's neck and shoulders, muddying them, then rinsing them clean.  
"Are you OK?" he asked, eventually.  
Malcolm shrugged, the water sluicing and bending to accommodate this motion.  
"I've buried men before. I w's more worried 'bout you."  
Ivan pressed a kiss to his husband's shoulder and said nothing.  
"You alrigh'?" Malcolm inquired, his accent thickening. Ivan nodded, vigorously.  
"Couldn't be better. I mean, you know what it was like - what he was like." Ivan bit his lip and slid soapy fingers over a birthmark on Malcolm's hip, "Whatever it was that got him...the old man had it coming."

They passed another few minutes of silence, with Ivan soaping and rinsing Malcolm's body bit by bit, stroking and inspecting every inch of him for any hint of change or injury. The water surged down around them, swirling away the mud in the tub, and Ivan reflected that he'd have to clean it again later. Malcolm had been hurt, Ivan suddenly realized, as his reached a red, raw scrape on his left knee and soaped around it, gently.

"It was a bear that got him, right?" he asked, suddenly, nervously. "George said they thought it was a bear."  
Malcolm shifted his stance in the tub and tilted his neck to pop it.  
"Yeah." he said, "It was a bear."

~:~

"So," Malcolm began, as they were lying entangled in bed in the dark, with his hand on Ivan's hip and the carrier's hand tracing the lines of Fascinus on his skin, "You got something you want to tell me?"  
Ivan startled, and blinked up at Malcolm, then swore.  
"Goddammit. George."  
Malcolm laughed a full, hearty laugh.  
"He told you?!" Ivan demanded.  
"Naw, he ain't that bad. Told Tom and I overheard. Got a big voice, George does."  
Ivan made an irritated noise.  
"And 'sides, I think I knew anyway."  
Ivan made another, more irritated noise.  
"You knew, and you didn't tell me?"  
Malcolm laughed and Ivan nudged him with a bare shoulder.  
"How'd you know?"  
"You ain't missed dinner in 6 weeks." he answered with a wry grin. "And it was almost 40C outside last week and I didn't even hear you complain. Figured it was either that or some kind of miracle."

Ivan rolled his eyes.  
"Guess that ruins the surprise, then."  
Malcolm shook his head and drew Ivan closer.  
"Nope. Still a surprise." he leaned in for a kiss. "Still a delight. Still excited. Still proud. Still ready." he kissed Ivan once more. "Still can't believe you didn't tell me."  
"Well." the carrier answered, testily, "You know now."  
Malcolm grinned fondly down at his mate, his carrier, his husband, his sweet and irreplaceable and mostly-healed Ivan.  
"Yep. I know now."

~fin~


End file.
